^M^'m 


R.e-  R9SE. 


laSRARV 

UNJVERSiTY  OF 
CAUPORNIA 

SAM  DIEGO 


presented  to  the 

LIBRARY 

UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  •  SAN  DIEGO 

by 

FRIENDS  OF  THE  LIBRARY 


MR.    JOHN  C,   ROSE 


i 


fknici^cvbockct  "^uqqcXs 


NUGGBT— "  A  diminutive  mass  of  precious  metal. 


37  VOLUMES  NOW  READY. 
For  full  list  see  end  of  this  volume 


CHARLES      LAMB. 
/Ct.23. 


THE 
WIT  AND    WISDOM 

OF 

Charles  Lamb 

7vith 

ANECDOTES  BY  HIS  CONTEMPORARIES 


Selected  and  arranged 
by 


ERNEST  DRESS  EL   NORTH 


NEIV   YORK  AND  LONDON 

G.    P.    P  UTNAM'  S   SONS 
Ube  Tknicfterbocl^cr  press 


Electrotyped,  Printed,  and  Bound  by 

"Cbe  TRnicfterbocftec  press,  t^ew  J^orfe 
G.  P.  Putnam's  Sons 


TO 

E.  L.  N, 


The  portrait  of  Ivamb  used  as  a  frontispiece,  is  from 
the  original  chalk  drawing  made  by  Robert  Hancock 
in  1798,  now  in  the  National  Portrait  Gallery,  Bethnal 
Green  Museum,  lyondon. 

It  was  originally  owned  by  Joseph  Cottle  and  appeared 
for  the  first  time  in  his  Early  Recollections,  2  vols., 
I^ondon,  1S37,  engraved  by  R.  Woodman,  three  years 
after  I^amb's  death.  Mr.  Cottle  considered  it  "  a  masterly 
likeness"  and  states  that  "  Mr.  Coleridge  often  used  to 
look  at  this  image  of  his  old  friend  and  school-fellow, 
and  express  his  warmest  approbation  of  its  accuracy." 

Hancock  made  other  drawings  about  the  same  time, 
of  Amos  Cottle,  Wordsworth,  Coleridge  and  Southej'. 
Mr.  Cottle  further  states  that  "these  likenesses  were 
taken  in  the  years  when  each  of  the  writers  published 
his  first  volume  of  poems,"  and  at  the  "  time  the  most 
favorable  for  expressing  the  moral  and  intellectual 
character  of  the  face  "  This  of  I^amb  must,  therefore, 
ever  remain  as  the  most  authentic  likeness  of  him  at 
this  early  period. 

The  text  of  lyamb's  Works  used  for  this  selection  is 
that  of  the  edition  of  Canon  Ainger,  published  by  the 
Macmillans. 


PREFATORY  NOTE. 


'T'HERE  are  few  writers  in  Englisli  literature 
whose  works  lend  themselves  more  readily  to 
quotation  than  do  those  of  Charles  Lamb, 

One  has  through  these  occasional  glimpses 
vistas  of  Lamb's  mind,  heart,  and  personality. 
Indeed  in  his  case  the  three  cannot  be  separated, 
for  his  mind  was  his  heart  and  his  person- 
ality was  the  combination  of  the  two.  He 
was  but  one  person  to  his  friends  and  to  his 
readers. 

If  Mr.  Pater's  remark  is  true,  and  no  careful 
reader  of  "  Elia  "  wall  dissent  from  it,  then  one 
cannot  fail  to  place  Lamb  high  on  the  ladder 
of  fame  as  a  humorist.  He  says  :  '*Lamb  was 
essentially  an  essayist  of  the  true  family  of 
Montaigne,  *  never  judging,'  as  he  says,  *  system- 
wise  of  things,  but  fastening  on  particulars,' 
saying  all  things  as  it  were  on  chance  occasion 
only,   and  by  way  of  pastime,  yet  succeeding 


iprefatocB  Bote 


thus,  '  glimpsewise, '  in  catching  and  recording 
more  frequently  than  others  'the  gayest, 
happiest  attitude  of  things,'  a  casual  writer 
for  dreamy  readers,  yet  always  giving  the 
reader  so  much  more  than  he  seemed  to 
propose." 

It  is  this  happy  faculty  of  "  catching  and  re- 
cording" that  has  fascinated  and  delighted 
his  readers.  The  writers  of  Lamb's  own  time 
were  largely  occupied  with  ideas  of  reform — 
religious,  moral,  and  political.  He  stood  aside 
and  watched  the  procession,  marked  its  irregu- 
larities, and  punctured  its  false  ideas,  all  the 
time  noting  when  it  was  out  of  step. 

Lamb's  humor  is  something  difficult  to  define. 
It  is  like  attempting  to  describe  a  Swiss  atmos- 
phere, or  a  rare  day  in  June.  It  permeates 
all  his  writings,  and  gives  us  a  sense  of  per- 
sonal acquaintance  with  one  of  the  most  heroic 
hearts  and  sunny  natures  in  the  annals  of 
literature. 

As  a  critic,  he  handed  down  to  future  readers 
the  charm  which  some  old  poet  or  moralist, 
such  as  Burton,  Quarles,  or  Hogarth,  exerted 
over  his  own  mind,  as  though  he  merely  trans- 
mitted it,  and  was  not  in  reality  its  originator. 

Sometimes  this  was  done  in  a  stray  letter,  a 
passing  note,  a  brief  essay,  or  a  pungent  remark. 
To  catch  these  and  give  them  to  the  reader  is 


prefatory  IWote 


the  purpose  of  this  little  book.  In  making  the 
selections,  I  have  been  governed  by  one  thought 
only — to  let  Lamb  in  all  cases  speak  for  him- 
self, for  no  writer  needs  less  editing  than  he. 
His  letters,  we  believe,  are  less  known  than  his 
essays,  although  they  contain  the  germ  of  much 
of  his  best  criticism  and  many  of  his  most  bril- 
liant flashes  of  wit.  I  have,  therefore,  given 
many  extracts  from  them,  hoping  to  interest 
the  reader  more  deeply  in  them. 

The  anecdotes  and  sayings  attributed  to  him 
would  fill  several  volumes  the  size  of  this. 

I  have  endeavored  to  trace  those  selected  to 
their  original  sources  and  only  give  such  as 
are  well  attested,  and  in  most  instances  by  con- 
temporaries. 

Several  anecdotes  are  told  again  and  again 
by  Lamb's  friends,  until  their  charm  has  been 
quite  dispelled,  in  these  instances  I  have  chosen 
the  version  which  seemed  the  earliest  and  most 
authentic. 

E.  D.  N. 


Summit,  New  Jersey, 
October  i,  1892. 


CHARLES  LAMB'S  AUTOBIOGRAPHY. 


/^HARLES  LAMB,  born  in  the  Inner  Temple, 
loth  February,  1775  ;  educated  in  Christ's 
Hospital ;  afterwards  a  clerk  in  the  Account- 
ants' Office,  East  India  House  ;  pensioned  off 
from  that  service,  1825,  after  thirty-three  years' 
service  ;  is  now  a  gentleman  at  large  ;  can  re- 
member few  specialties  in  his  life  worth  noting, 
except  that  he  once  caught  a  swallow  flying 
{teste  sua  manu).  Below  the  middle  stature  ; 
cast  of  face  slightly  Jewish,  with  no  Judaic 
tinge  in  his  complexion al  religion  ;  stammers 
abominably,  and  is  therefore  more  apt  to  dis- 
charge his  occasional  conversation  in  a  quaint 
aphorism,  or  a  poor  quibble,  than  in  set  and 
edifying  speeches  ;  has  consequently  been  li- 
belled as  a  person  always  aiming  at  wit  ;  which, 


Gbarles  ILamb's  autobiograpb^ 


as  lie  told  a  dull  fellow  who  charged  him  with  it, 
is  at  least  as  good  as  aiming  at  dulness.  A  -niall 
eater,  but  not  drinker ;  confesses  a  partiality 
for  the  production  of  the  juniper-berrj'  ;  was  a 
fierce  smoker  of  tobacco,  but  ma}-  be  resembled 
to  a  volcano  burnt  out,  emitting  only  now  and 
then  an  occasional  puff.  Has  been  guilty  of 
obtruding  upon  the  public  a  tale,  in  prose, 
called  "Rosamund  Gray"  ;  a  dramatic  sketch, 
named  "John  AVoodvil "  ;  a  "Farewell  Ode  to 
Tobacco,"  with  sundry  other  poems,  and  light 
prose  matter,  collected  in  two  slight  crown 
octavos,  and  pompously  christened  his  works, 
though  in  fact  they  were  his  recreations  ;  and 
his  true  works  may  be  found  on  the  shelves  of 
Leadenhall  Street,  filling  some  hundred  folios. 
He  is  also  the  true  Elia,  whose  Essays  are 
extant  in  a  little  volume.  He  died,  i8 — ,  much 
lamented. 

Witness  his  hand, 

Chari.es  Lamb. 
iSth  April,  1827. 


WIT  AND  WISDOM  OI^  CHARLES  LAMB. 


AN  EQUAtiTY  Ne:cessary  to  Associates. — 
As  little  as  I  should  wish  to  be  always  thus 
dragged  upwards,  as  little  (or  rather  still  less) 
is  it  desirable  to  be  stunted  downwards  by  your 
associates.  The  trumpet  does  not  more  stun 
you  by  its  loudness,  than  a  whisper  teases  you 
by  its  provoking  inaudibility. — yThe  Old  and 
the  New  Schoolmaster.'] 

Cousin  James  Ewa. — Whereas  mankind  in 
general  are  observed  to  w^ap  their  speculative 
conclusions  to  the  bent  of  their  individual 
humors,  his  theories  are  sure  to  be  in  diamet- 
rical opposition  to  his  constitution.  He  is  cour- 
ageous as  Charles  of  Sweden,  upon  instinct ; 
chary  of  his  person,  upon  principle,  as  a  trav- 
I 


Cbarlce  Xamb*s 


elling  Quaker.  He  has  been  preaching  up  to 
me,  all  my  life,  the  doctrine  of  bowing  to  the 
great — the  necessity  of  forms,  and  manner,  to 
a  man's  getting  on  in  the  world.  He  himself 
never  aims  at  either,  that  I  can  discover, — and 
has  a  spirit  that  would  stand  upright  in  the 
presence  of  the  Cham  of  Tartary.  It  is  pleas- 
ant to  hear  him  discourse  of  patience — extolling 
it  as  the  truest  wisdom, — and  to  see  him  during 
the  last  seven  minutes  that  his  dinner  is  getting 
ready. — [Jl/y  Relations.'\ 

Cousin  James  Ewa. — He  says  some  of  the 
best  things  in  the  world — and  declareth  that  wit 
is  his  aversion.  It  was  he  who  said,  upon  see- 
ing the  Eton  boys  at  play  in  their  grounds, — 
What  a  pity  to  think^  that  these  fine  ingenuous 
lads  in  a  few  years  will  all  be  changed  into 
frivolous  Members  of  Parliament ! 

His  youth  was  fiery,  glowing,  tempestuous, 
— and  in  age  he  discovered  no  symptom  of 
cooling.  This  is  that  which  I  admire  in 
him.  I  hate  people  who  meet  Time  half-way. 
I  am  for  no  compromise  with  that  inevitable 


TDQit  auD  IKHis^om 


spoiler.     While  he  lives,  J.  E.  will   take   his 
swing. — [My  RelationsJX 

The  Tower  of  Babki..— Gebir,  my  old  free- 
mason and  prince  of  pliasterers  at  Babel,  bring 
in  your  trowel,  most  Ancient  Grand !  You 
have  claim  to  a  seat  here  at  my  right  hand,  as 
patron  of  the  stammerers.  You  left  your  work, 
if  I  remember  Herodotus  correctly,  at  eight 
hundred  million  toises,  or  thereabout,  above 
the  level  of  the  sea.  Bless  us,  what  a  long  bell 
you  must  have  pulled,  to  call  your  top  workmen 
to  their  luncheon  on  the  low  grounds  of  Sen- 
naar.  Or  did  you  send  up  your  garlic  and 
onions  by  a  rocket?  I  am  a  rogue  if  I  am 
not  ashamed  to  show  you  our  Monument  on 
Fish  Street  Hill,  after  your  altitudes.  Yet  we 
think  it  somewhat. 

What,  the  magnanimous  Alexander  in  tears  ? 
— cry,  baby,  put  its  finger  in  its  eye,  it  shall 
have  another  globe,  round  as  an  orange,  pretty 
moppet  \—[All  Fools'  Day.] 

On  Fools. — I  will  confess  a  truth  to  thee, 
reader.     I  love  a  Fool— as  naturally,  as  if  I 


Cbarlea  Xamb's 


were  of  kith  and  kin  to  Mm.     When  a  child, 

with  childlike  apprehensions,  that  dived  not 
below  the  surface  of  the  matter,  I  read  those 
Parables — not  guessing  at  their  involved  wis- 
dom— I  had  more  yearning  towards  that  simple 
architect  that  built  his  house  upon  the  sand, 
than  I  entertained  for  his  more  cautious  neigh- 
bor ;  I  grudged  at  the  hard  censure  pro- 
nounced upon  the  quiet  soul  that  kept  his 
talent ;  and — prizing  their  simplicity  beyond 
the  more  provident,  and,  to  my  apprehension, 
somewhat  unfeminine  wariness,  of  their  com- 
petitors— I  felt  a  kindliness,  that  almost 
amounted  to  a  teridre,  for  those  five  thought- 
less virgins, — I  have  never  made  an  acquaint- 
ance since,  that  lasted,  or  a  friendship,  that 
answered,  with  any  that  had  not  some  tincture 
of  the  absurd  in  their  characters.  I  venerate 
an  honest  obliquity  of  understanding. — \^All 
Fools'  Day.] 

Chii^drEN. — Boys  are  capital  fellows  in  their 
own  way,  among  their  mates  ;  but  they  are  un- 
wholesome companions  for  grown  people.    The 


mit  an&  mfsOom 


restraint  is  felt  no  less  on  the  one  side,  than  on 
the  other.  Even  a  child,  that  **  plaything  for  an 
hour,"  tires  always.  The  noises  of  children, 
playing  their  own  fancies — as  I  now  hearken  to 
them  by  fits,  sporting  on  the  green  before  my 
window,  while  I  am  engaged  in  these  grave 
speculations  at  my  neat  suburban  retreat  at 
Shacklewell — by  distance  made  more  sweet — 
inexpressibly  take  from  the  labor  of  my  task. 
It  is  like  writing  to  music.  They  seem  to 
modulate  my  periods.  They  ought  at  least  to 
do  so — for  in  the  voice  of  that  tender  age  there 
is  a  kind  of  poetry,  far  unlike  the  harsh  prose- 
accents  of  man's  conversation. — I  should  but 
spoil  their  sport,  and  diminish  m}-  own  sympa- 
thy for  them,  by  mingling  in  their  pastime. — 
[  The  Old  and  the  Nezv  Schoolmaster.'\ 

Gamks  of  Chanck. — She  could  not  conceive 
a^«w^  wanting  the  sprightly  infusion  of  chance, 
— the  handsome  excuses  of  good  fortune.  Two 
people  playing  at  chess  in  a  comer  of  a  room, 
whilst  whist  was  stirring  in  the  centre,  would 
inspire  her  with  insufferable  horror  and  ennui. 


Cbarles  Xamb^s 


Those  well-cut  similitudes  of  Castles  and 
Knights,  the  imagery  of  the  board,  she  would 
argue  (and  I  think  in  this  case  justly),  were 
entirely  misplaced  and  senseless.  Those  hard 
head-contests  can  in  no  instance  ally  with  the 
fancy.  They  reject  form  and  color.  A  pencil 
and  dry  slate  (she  used  to  say)  were  the  proper 
arena  for  such  combatants.  —  \_Mrs.  Battle's 
Opinions  ofi   Whist. '\ 

The  Seat  of  the  Affections. — In  these  lit- 
tle visual  interpretations,  no  emblem  is  so  com- 
mon as  the  heaj-t — that  little  three-cornered 
exponent  of  all  our  hopes  and  fears, — the  be- 
stuck  and  bleeding  heart ;  it  is  twisted  and  tor- 
tured into  more  allegories  and  affectations  than 
an  opera-hat.  "What  authority  w^e  have  in  his- 
tory or  mythology  for  placing  the  headquarters 
and  metropolis  of  God  Cupid  in  this  anatomical 
seat  rather  than  in  any  other,  is  not  very  clear  ; 
but  we  have  got  it,  and  it  will  serve  as  well  as 
any  other.  Else  we  might  easily  imagine,  upon 
some  other  system  which  might  have  prevailed 
for  anything  which  our  pathology  knows  to  the 


Mit  anb  timt6t)om 


contrary,  a  lover  addressing  his  mistress,  in 
perfect  simplicity  of  feeling :  "Madam,  my  liver 
and  fortune  are  entirely  at  your  disposal "  ; 
or  putting  a  delicate  question  :  "Amanda, 
liave  you  a  midriff  to  bestow  ?  ' '  But  custom 
has  settled  these  things,  and  awarded  the  seat 
of  sentiment  to  the  aforesaid  triangle,  while 
its  less  fortunate  neighbors  wait  at  animal 
and  anatomical  distance. — [^Valentine's  Day.} 

"  God  SavK  Thk  King."— I  even  think  that 
sentimentally  I  am  disposed  to  harmony. 
But  organically  I  am  incapable  of  a  tune.  I 
have  been  practising  "  God  save  the  King  "  all 
my  life  ;  whistling  and  humming  of  it  over  to 
myself  in  solitary  corners  ;  and  am  not  yet 
arrived,  they  tell  me,  within  many  quavers  of 
it.  Yet  hath  the  loyalty  of  EHa  never  been 
impeached. — [A   Chapter  on  Ears.} 

The  Man  and  the  Chii^d. — If  I  know 
aught  of  myself,  no  one  whose  mind  is  intro- 
spective— and  mine  is  painfully  so — can  have  a 
less  respect  for  his  present  identity,  than  I  have 


Cbarles  Xamb's 


for  the  man  KHa.  I  know  him  to  be  light,  and 
vain,  and  humorsome  ;  a  notorious  .  .  .  ;  ad- 
dicted to  ...  ;  averse  from  counsel,  neither 
taking  it,  nor  offering  it  ; —  ...  besides  ;  a 
stammering  buffoon  ;  what  you  will ;  lay  it  on, 
and  spare  not  ;  I  subscribe  to  it  all,  and  much 
more,  than  thou  canst  be  willing  to  lay  at  his 

door but  for  the   child   Elia — that    "other 

me,"  there,  in  the  background — I  must  take 
leave  to  cherish  the  remembrance  of  that  young 
master — with  as  little  reference,  I  protest,  to 
this  stupid  changeling  of  five-and-fort}^,  as  if  it 
had  been  a  child  of  some  other  house,  and  not 
of  my  parents.  I  can  cry  over  its  patient  small- 
pox at  five,  and  rougher  medicaments.  I  can 
lay  its  poor  fevered  head  upon  the  sick  pillow 
at  Christ's,  and  wake  with  it  in  surprise  at  the 
gentle  posture  of  maternal  tenderness  hanging 
over  it,  that  unknown  had  watched  its  sleep. 
I  know  how  it  shrank  from  any  the  least  color 
of  falsehood. — God  help  thee,  Elia,  how  art 
thou  changed  !  Thou  art  sophisticated. — I 
know  how  honest,  how  courageous  (for  a  weak- 
ling, it  was — how  religious,  how  imaginative, 


liow  hopeful !  From  what  have  I  not  fallen,  if 
the  child  I  remember  was  indeed  myself, — and 
not  some  dissembling  guardian,  presenting  a 
false  identity,  to  give  the  rule  to  my  unprac- 
tised steps,  and  regulate  the  tone  of  my  moral 
being  ! — \^New  Year's  Eve.l 

A  Game  of  Whist, — I  never  in  my  life — and 
I  knew  Sarah  Battle  many  of  the  best  years  of 
it — saw  her  take  out  her  snuff-box  when  it  was 
her  turn  to  play  ;  or  snuff  a  candle  in  the  mid- 
dle of  a  game  ;  or  ring  for  a  servant  till  it  was 
fairly  over.  She  never  introduced,  or  connived 
at,  miscellaneous  conversation  during  its  pro- 
cess. As  she  emphatically  observed,  cards 
were  cards  ;  and  if  I  ever  saw  unmingled  dis- 
taste in  her  .fine  last-century  countenance,  it 
was  at  the  airs  of  a  young  gentleman  of  a  lit- 
erary turn,  who  had  been  with  difficulty  per- 
suaded to  take  a  hand  ;  and  who,  in  his  excess 
of  candor,  declared,  that  he  thought  there  was 
no  harm  in  unbending  the  mind  now  and  then, 
after  serious  studies,  in  recreations  of  that  kind  ! 
She  could  not  bear  to  have  her  noble  occupa- 


Cbarles  Xamb's 


tion,  to  which  she  wound  up  her  faculties,  con- 
sidered in  that  light.  It  was  her  business,  her 
duty,  the  thing  she  came  into  the  world  to  do, 
— and  she  did  it.  She  unbent  her  mind  after- 
wards—over a  book. — \^M7'S.  Battle's  Opinions 
on  Whist.l 

Who  is  Kwa  ? — Because  in  my  last  I  tried 
to  divert  thee  with  some  half-forgotten  humors 
of  some  old  clerks  defunct,  in  an  old  house  of 
business,  long  since  gone  to  decay,  doubtless 
you  have  already  set  me  down  in  your  mind  as 
one  of  the  self-same  college — a  votary  of  the 
desk — a  notched  and  cropt  scrivener — one  that 
sucks  his  sustenance,  as  certain  sick  people  are 
said  to  do,  through  a  quill. 

Well,  I  do  agnize  something  of  the  sort.  I 
confess  that  it  is  my  humor,  my  fancy — in  the 
forepart  of  the  day,  when  the  mind  of  your 
man  of  letters  requires  some  relaxation — (and 
none  better  than  such  as  at  first  sight  seems 
most  abhorrent  from  his  beloved  studies) — to 
while  away  some  good  hours  of  my  time  in  the 
contemplation  of  indigoes,  cottons,  raw  silks, 


*Mlt  auD  misDom 


piece-goods,  flowered  or  otherwise.  In  the  first 
place  .  .  .  and  then  it  sends  you  home  with 
such  increased  appetite  to  your  books  .  .  .  not 
to  say,  that  your  outside  sheets,  and  waste  wrap- 
pers of  foolscap,  do  receive  into  them,  most 
kindly  and  naturally,  the  impression  of  sonnets, 
epigrams,  assays — so  that  the  very  parings  of  a 
counting-house  are,  in  some  sort,  the  settings  up 
of  an  author.  The  enfranchised  quill,  that  has 
plodded  all  the  morning  among  the  cart-rucks  of 
figures  and  cyphers,  frisks  and  curvets  so  at  its 
ease  over  the  flowery  carpet-ground  of  a  mid- 
night dissertation.  It  feels  its  promotion.  ...  So 
that  you  see,  upon  the  whole,  the  literary  dig- 
nity of  £lia  is  very  little,  if  at  all,  compromised 
in  the  condescension. — [0:rford  in  the  Vaca- 
tion.\ 

CuRiosiTiKS  IN  Literature. — Still  less  have 
I  curiosity  to  disturb  the  elder  repose  of  MSS. 
Those  varied  lediones,  so  tempting  to  the  more 
erudite  palates,  do  but  disturb  and  unsettle  my 
faith.  I  am  no  Herculean  raker.  The  credit 
of  the  three  witnesses  might  have  slept  unim- 


Cbarles  Xamb's 


peached  for  me.  I  leave  these  curiosities  to 
Porson,  and  to  G.  D. — whom,  by  the  way,  I 
found  busy  as  a  moth  over  some  rotten  archive, 
rummaged  out  of  some  seldom-explored  press 
in  a  nook  at  Oriel.  With  long  poring,  he  is 
grown  almost  into  a  book.  He  stood  as  passive 
as  one  by  the  side  of  the  old  shelves.  I  longed 
to  new-coat  him  in  Russia,  and  assign  him  his 
place.  He  might  have  mustered  for  a  tall 
Scapula. — {Oxford  in  the  Vacation.'] 

On  Kpitaphs. — More  than  all,  I  conceive 
disgust  at  those  impertinent  and  misbecoming 
familiarities,  inscribed  upon  your  ordinary 
tombstones.  Every  dead  man  must  take  upon 
himself  to  be  lecturing  me  with  his  odious 
truism,  that  "  such  as  he  now  is,  I  must  shortly 
be."  Not  so  shortly,  friend,  perhaps  as  thou 
imaginest.  In  the  meantime  I  am  alive.  I 
move  about.  I  am  worth  twenty  of  thee. 
Know  thy  betters  ! — \_Ne7v  Year's  Eve.] 

On  Gkorgk  Dyer. — For  with  G.  D.  to  be 
absent  from  the  body,  is  sometimes  (not  to 
speak  it  profanely)  to  be  present  with  the  Lord. 


mit  aiiD  TimiBDom 


At  the  very  time  when,  personally  encountering 
thee,  he  passes  on  with  no  recognition — or, 
being  stopped,  starts  like  a  thing  surprized — at 
that  moment,  reader,  he  is  on  Mount  Tabor — 
or  Parnassus — or  co-sphered  with  Plato — or, 
with  Harrington,  framing  "immortal  common- 
wealths"— devising  some  plan  of  amelioration 
to  thy  country,  or  thy  species — peradventure 
meditating  some  individual  kindness  of  cour- 
tesy, to  be  done  to  thee  thyself,  the  returning 
consciousness  of  which  made  him  to  start  so 
guiltily  at  thy  obtruded  personal  presence. 

D.    commenced  life  after  a  course   of  hard 
study   in   the  house  of   "pure   Emanuel,"   as 

usher  to  a  knavish  fanatic  schoolmaster  at , 

at  a  salary  of  eight  pounds  per  annum,  with 
board  and  lodging.  Of  this  poor  stipend  he 
never  received  above  half  in  all  the  laborious 
years  he  served  this  man.  He  tells  a  pleasant 
anecdote,  that  when  poverty,  staring  out  at  his 
ragged  knees,  has  sometimes  compelled  him, 
against  the  modesty  of  his  nature,  to  hint  at 

arrears,  Dr.   would  take  no  immediate 

notice,  but  after  supper,  when  the  school  was 


14  Cbarles  Xamb'6 

called  together  to  even-song,  lie  would  never 

fail  to  introduce  some  instructive  homily 
against  riches,  and  the  corruption  of  the  heart 
occasioned  through  the  desire  of  them — ending 
with  "  Ivord,  keep  thy  servants,  above  all 
things,  from  the  heinous  sin  of  avarice.  Having 
food  and  raiment,  let  us  therewithal  be  content. 
Give  me  Hagar's  wish  " — and  the  like — which, 
to  the  little  auditory,  sounded  like  a  doctrine 
full  of  Christian  prudence  and  simplicity,  but  to 
poor  D.  was  a  receipt  in  full  for  that  quarter's 
demand  at  least. — {Oxford  in  the  Vacation.^ 

Borrowers. — Observe  who  have  been  the 
greatest  borrowers  of  all  ages — Alcibiades — 
Falstaff — Sir  Richard  Steele — our  late  incom- 
parable Brinsley — what  a  family  likeness  in  all 
four! 

What  a  careless,  even  deportment  hath  your 
borrower !  what  rosy  gills  !  what  a  beautiful 
reliance  on  Providence  doth  he  manifest, — 
taking  no  more  thought  than  lilies  !  What 
contempt  for  money, — accounting  it  (yours  and 
mine  especially)  no  better  than  dross  !     What  a 


mit  an&  'MlsDom  15 

liberal  confounding  of  those  pedantic  distinc- 
tions of  meitm  and  fuum  /  or  rather,  what  a 
noble  simplification  of  language  (beyond 
Tooke),  resolving  these  supposed  opposites 
into  one  clear,  intelligible  pronoun  adjective  ! 
— What  near  approaches  doth  he  make  to  the 
primitive  commtmity, — to  the  extent  of  one 
half  of  the  principle  at  least ! — [  The  Two  Races 
of  Men. 1 

The  Composure  op  Quakers.— The  aston- 
ishing composure  of  this  people  is  sometimes 
ludicrously  displayed  in  lighter  instances. — I 
was  travelling  in  a  stage-coach  with  three  male 
Quakers,  buttoned  up  in  the  straightest  non- 
conformity of  their  sect.  We  stopped  to  bait  at 
Andover,  where  a  meal,  partly  tea  apparatus, 
partly  supper,  was  set  before  us.  My  friends 
confined  themselves  to  the  tea-table.  I  in  my 
way  took  supper.  When  the  landlady  brought 
in  the  bill,  the  eldest  of  my  companions  dis- 
covered that  she  had  charged  for  both  meals. 
This  was  resisted.  Mine  hostess  was  very 
clamorous  and  positive.     Some  mild  arguments 


Cbarles  Xamb's 


were  used  on  the  part  of  the  Quakers,  for  which 
the  heated  mind  of  the  good  lady  seemed  by  no 
means  a  fit  recipient.  The  guard  came  in  with 
his  usual  peremptory  notice.  The  Quakers 
pulled  out  their  money,  and  formally  tendered 
it — so  much  for  tea — I,  in  humble  imitation, 
tendering  mine — for  the  supper  which  I  had 
taken.  She  would  not  relax  in  her  demand. 
So  they  all  three  quietly  put  up  their  silver,  as 
did  myself,  and  marched  out  of  the  room,  the 
eldest  and  gravest  going  first,  with  myself 
closing  up  the  rear,  who  thought  I  could  not  do 
better  than  follow  the  example  of  such  grave 
and  warrantable  personages.  We  got  in.  The 
steps  went  up.  The  coach  drove  off.  The 
murmurs  of  mine  hostess,  not  very  indistinctly 
or  ambiguously  pronounced,  became  after  a 
time  inaudable — and  now  my  conscience,  which 
the  whimsical  scene  had  for  a  while  suspended, 
beginning  to  give  some  twitches,  I  waited,  in 
the  hope  that  some  justification  would  be  offered 
by  these  serious  people  for  the  seeming  injustice 
of  their  conduct.  To  my  great  surprise,  not  a 
syllable  was  dropped  on  the  subject.     They  sate 


"Mit  anD  WfsOom  17 


as  mute  as  at  a  meeting.  At  length  the  eldest 
of  them  broke  silence,  by  inquiring  of  his  next 
neighbor,  "Hast  thee  heard  how  iudigoes  go  at 
the  India  House?"  and  the  question  operated 
as  a  soporific  on  my  moral  feeling  as  far  as 
Exeter. — {^Imperfect  Sympathies.']     ' 

On  Saying  Grace. — I  own  that  I  am  dis- 
posed to  say  grace  upon  twenty  other  occasions 
in  the  course  of  the  day  besides  my  dinner.  I 
want  a  form  for  setting  out  upon  a  pleasant 
walk,  for  a  moonlight  ramble,  for  a  friendly 
meeting,  or  a  solved  problem.  Why  have  we 
none  for  books,  those  spiritual  repasts — a  grace 
before  Milton — a  grace  before  Shakspeare — a 
devotional  exercise  proper  to  be  said  before 
reading  the  Fairy  Queen? — \Grace  Before 
Meat.] 

Thk  Sun-diai.. — What  an  antique  air  had 
the  now  almost  effaced  sun-dials,  with  their 
moral  inscriptions,  seeming  coevals  with  that 
Time  which  they  measured,  and  to  take  their 
revelations    of     its    flight    immediately    from 


i8  Cbaclc5  Xamb's 

heaven,  holding  correspondence  with  the  foun- 
tain of  light !  How  would  the  dark  line  steal 
imperceptibly  on,  watched  by  the  eye  of  child- 
hood, eager  to  detect  its  movement,  never 
catched,  nice  as  an  evanescent  cloud,  or  the 
first  arrests'of  sleep  ! 

"  Ah  !  yet  doth  beauty  like  a  dial-h-and 
Steal  from  his  figure,  and  no  pace  perceived  !  " 

What  a  dead  thing  is  a  clock,  with  its  pon- 
derous embowelments  of  lead  and  brass,  its 
pert  or  solemn  dulness  of  communication,  com- 
pared with  the  simple  altar-like  structure,  and 
silent  heart-language  of  the  old  dial !  It  stood 
as  the  garden  god  of  Christian  gardens.  Why 
is  it  almost  everywhere  vanished  ?  If  its  busi- 
ness-use be  superseded  by  more  elaborate  inven- 
tions, its  moral  uses,  its  beauty,  might  have 
pleaded  for  its  continuance.  It  spoke  of  mod- 
erate labors,  of  pleasures  not  protracted  after 
sunset,  of  temperance,  and  good  hours.  It  was 
the  primitive  clock,  the  horologe  of  the  first 
world.  Adam  could  scarce  have  missed  it  in 
Paradise.  —  [  The  Old  Be7ichers  of  the  Inner 
Temple. ^ 


mat  mb  mtsDom  19 

Is  CHiiyDHOOD  Dead? — The  artificial  foun- 
tains of  the  metropolis  are,  in  like  manner, 
fast  vanishing.  Most  of  them  are  dried  up,  or 
bricked  over.  Yet,  where  one  is  left,  as  in  that 
little  green  nook  behind  the  South-Sea  House, 
what  a  freshness  it  gives  to  the  dreary  pile ! 
Four  little  winged  marble  boys  used  to  play 
their  virgin  fancies,  spouting  out  ever  fresh 
streams  from  their  innocent  wanton  lips,  in  the 
square  of  Lincoln's  Inn,  when  I  was  no  bigger 
than  they  were  figured.  They  are  gone,  and 
the  spring  choked  up.  The  fashion,  they  tell 
me,  is  gone  by,  and  these  things  are  esteemed 
childish.  Why  not  then  gratify  children,  by 
letting  them  stand  ?  Lawyers,  I  suppose,  were 
children  once.  They  are  awakening  images  to 
them  at  least.  Why  must  everything  smack  of 
man,  and  mannish  ?  Is  the  world  all  grown 
up  ?  Is  childhood  dead  ?  Or  is  there  not  in  the 
bosoms  of  the  wisest  and  the  best  some  of  the 
child's  heart  left,  to  respond  to  its  earliest  en- 
chantments ?  The  figures  were  grotesque.  Are 
the  stifif-wigged  living  figures,  that  still  flitter 
and   chatter   about   that   area,    less   Gothic  in 


20  Cbarles  Xamb'6 

appearance?  or  is  the  splutter  of  their  hot 
rhetoric  one  half  so  refreshing  and  innocent  as 
the  little  cool  playful  streams  those  exploded 
cherubs  uttered? — \^The  Old  Benchers  of  the 
Inner  Temple. 1 

A  Character  Sketch. — It  was  incredible 
what  repute  for  talents  S.  enjoyed  by  the  mere 
trick  of  gravity.  He  was  a  shy  man  ;  a  child 
might  pose  him  in  a  minute — indolent  and  pro- 
crastinating to  the  last  degree.  Yet  men  would 
give  him  credit  for  vast  application  in  spite  of 
himself.  He  was  not  to  be  trusted  with  him- 
self with  impunity.  He  never  dressed  for  a 
dinner-party  but  he  forgot  his  sword — they  wore 
swords  then — or  some  other  necessary  part  of 
his  equipage.  Lovel  had  his  eye  upon  him  on 
all  these  occasions,  and  ordinarily  gave  him  his 
cue.  If  there  was  anything  which  he  could 
speak  unseasonably,  he  was  sure  to  do  it.  He 
was  to  dine  at  a  relative's  of  the  unfortunate 
Miss  Blandy  on  the  day  of  her  execution  ;  and 
L.,  who  had  a  wary  foresight  of  his  probable 
hallucinations,  before  he  set  out,  schooled  him 


"Mft  anO  limisDom  21 


with  great  anxiety  not  in  any  possible  manner 
to  allude  to  her  story  that  day.  S.  promised 
faithfully  to  observe  the  injunction.  He  had 
not  been  seated  in  the  parlor,  where  the  com- 
pany was  expecting  the  dinner  summons,  four 
minutes,  when,  a  pause  in  the  conversation 
ensuing,  he  got  up,  looked  out  of  the  window, 
and  pulling  down  his  ruffles  —  an  ordinary 
motion  with  him — observed,  "it  was  a  gloomy 
day,"  and  added,  "Miss  Blandy  must  be 
hanged  by  this  time,  I  suppose."  Instances  of 
this  sort  were  perpetual.  Yet  S.  was  thought 
by  some  of  the  greatest  men  of  his  time  a  fit 
person  to  be  consulted,  not  alone  in  matters 
pertaining  to  the  law,  but  in  the  ordinary  -nice- 
ties and  embarrassments  of  conduct  —  from 
force  of  manner  entirely.  He  never  laughed. 
— \_The  Old  Benchers  of  the  Irmer  Temple. "l 

The  Evil,  OF  Disturbing  a  Chii^d's  Faith. 
—In  my  father's  book-closet,  the  History  of  the 
Bible,  by  Stackhouse,  occupied  a  distinguished 
station.  The  pictures  with  which  it  abounds 
— one  of  the  ark,  in  particular,  and  another  of 


22  Gbarles  Xamb's 


Solomon's  temple,  delineated  with  all  the  fidel- 
ity of  ocular  admeasurement,  as  if  the  artist 
had  been  upon  the  spot — attracted  my  childish 
attention.  There  was  a  picture,  too,  of  the 
Witch  raising  up  Samuel,  which  I  wash  that  I 
had  never  seen.  We  shall  come  to  that  hereafter. 
Stackhouse  is  in  two  huge  tomes — and  there 
was  a  pleasure  in  removing  folios  of  that  mag- 
nitude, which,  with  infinite  s^training,  was  as 
much  as  I  could  manage  from  the  situation 
which  they  occupied  upon  the  upper  shelf  I 
have  not  met  with  the  work  from  that  time  to 
this,  but  I  remember  it  consisted  of  Old  Testa- 
ment stories,  orderly  set  down,  with  the  objec- 
tion appended  to  each  story,  and  the  solution 
of  the  objection  regularly  tacked  to  that.  The 
objectiofi  was  a  summary  of  whatever  difficul- 
ties had  been  opposed  to  the  credibility  of  the 
history,  by  the  shrewdness  of  ancient  or  mod- 
ern infidelity,  drawn  up  with  an  almost  com- 
plimentary excess  of  candor.  The  solution 
was  brief,  modest,  and  satisfactory.  The  bane 
and  antidote  were  both  before  you.  To  doubts 
so  put,  and  so  quashed,  there  seemed  to  be  an 


Iimft  an&  mfsOom  23 


end  for  ever.  The  dragon  lay  dead,  for  the  foot 
of  the  veriest  babe  to  trample  on.  But — like 
as  was  rather  feared  than  realized  from  that 
slain  monster  in  Spenser — from  the  womb  of 
those  crushed  errors  young  dragonets  would 
creep,  exceeding  the  prowess  of  so  tender  a 
Saint  George  as  myself  to  vanquish.  The 
habit  of  expecting  objections  to  every  passage, 
set  me  upon  starting  more  objections,  for  the 
glory  of  finding  a  solution  of  my  own  for  them. 
I  became  staggered  and  perplexed,  a  sceptic  in 
long-coats.  The  pretty  Bible  stories  which  I 
had  read,  or  heard  read  in  church,  lost  their 
purity  and  sincerity  of  impression,  and  were 
turned  into  so  many  historic  or  chronologic 
theses  to  be  defended  against  whatever 
impugners.  —  [  Witches  and  Othe7'  Night 
Fears.'] 

CRKDUI.ITY. — Next  to  making  a  child  an 
infidel,  is  the  letting  him  know  that  there  are 
infidels  at  all.  Credulity  is  the  man's  weak- 
ness, but  the  child's  strength. — [  Witches  and 
Other  Night  Fears.] 


24  Cbarles  Xamb's 


On  Quakers. — The  Quakers  who  go  about 
their  business,  of  every  description,  with  more 
calmness  than  we,  have  more  title  to  the  use  of 
these  benedictory  prefaces.  I  have  always 
admired  their  silent  grace,  and  the  more  because 
I  have  observed  their  applications  to  the  meat 
and  drink  following  to  be  less  passionate  and 
sensual  than  ours.  They  are  neither  gluttons 
nor  wine-bibbers  as  a  people.  Thej-  eat,  as 
a  horse  bolts  his  chopped  hay,  with  indifference, 
calmness,  and  cleanly  circumstances.  They 
neither  grease  nor  slop  themselves.  When  I  see 
a  citizen  in  his  bib  and  tucker,  I  cannot 
imagine  it  a  surplice. — [^Grace  Before  Meat.'] 

Two  Methodist  Divines.— I  once  drank 
tea  in  company  with  two  Methodist  divines  of 
different  persuasions,  whom  it  was  my  fortune 
to  introduce  to  each  other  for  the  first  time  that 
evening.  Before  the  first  cup  was  handed 
round,  one  of  these  reverend  gentlemen  put  it 
to  the  other,  with  all  due  solemnity,  whether 
lie  chose  to  say  anything.  It  seems  it  is  the 
custom  with  some  sectaries  to  put  up  a  short 


mn  anD  UIllsDom  25 


prayer  before  this  meal  also.  His  reverend 
brother  did  not  at  first  quite  apprehend  him,  but 
upon  an  explanation,  with  little  less  importance 
he  made  answer,  that  it  was  not  a  custom 
known  in  his  church :  in  which  courteous 
evasion  the  other  acquiescing  for  good  man- 
ners' sake,  or  in  compliance  with  a  weak 
brother,  the  supplementary  or  tea-grace  was 
waived  altogether.  With  what  spirit  might  not 
Lucian  have  painted  two  priests,  of  /lis  religion, 
playing  into  each  other's  hands  the  compliment 
of  performing  or  omitting  a  sacrifice, —the 
hungry  God  meantime,  doubtful  of  his  incense, 
with  expectant  nostrils  hovering  over  the  two 
flamens,  and  (as  between  two  stools)  going 
away  in  the  end  without  his  supper. — [Grace 
Before  AfeaL] 

iTAiyiAN  Opera. — I  have  sat  through  an 
Italian  Opera,  till,  for  sheer  pain  and  inex- 
plicable anguish,  I  have  rushed  out  into  the 
noisiest  places  of  the  crowded  streets,  to  solace 
myself  with  sounds  which  I  was  not  obliged  to 
follow,  and  get  rid  of  the  distracting  torment  of 


26  Cbarlee  Xamb's 


endless,  fruitless,  barren  attention !  I  take 
refuge  in  the  unpretending  assemblage  of  hon- 
est common-life  sounds  ; — and  the  purgatory  of 
the  Enraged  Musician  becomes  my  paradise. — 
[A  Chapter  on  Ears."] 

The  Oratorio. — I  have  sat  at  an  Oratorio 
(that  profanation  of  the  purposes  of  the  cheer- 
ful playhouse)  watching  the  faces  of  the  audi- 
tory in  the  pit  (what  a  contrast  to  Hogarth's 
Laughing  Audience  ! )  immovable,  or  affecting 
some  faint  emotion, — till  (as  some  have  said, 
that  our  occupations  in  the  next  w^orld  will  be 
but  a  shadow  of  what  delighted  us  in  this)  I 
have  imagined  myself  in  some  cold  Theatre  in 
Hades,  where  some  o^  the  forms  of  the  earthly 
one  should  be  kept  up,  with  none  of  the  enjoy- 
tnent ;  or  like  that — 

" Party  in  a  parlor, 

All  silent,  and  all  damned  !  "— 

\_A  Chapter  on  Bars.} 

Instrument  A  I,  Music. — Above  all,  those 
insufferable  concertos,  and  pieces  of  music,  as 
they  are  called,  do  plague  and  embitter  my  ap- 


mit  anD  misOom  27 


prehension.  Words  are  something ;  but  to  be 
exposed  to  an  endless  battery  of  mere  sounds  ; 
to  be  long  a-dying,  to  lie  stretched  upon  a  rack 
of  roses  ;  to  keep  up  languor  by  unintermitted 
effort ;  to  pile  honey  upon  sugar,  and  sugar 
upon  honey,  to  an  interminable  tedious  sweet- 
ness ;  to  fill  up  sound  with  feeling,  and  strain 
ideas  to  keep  pace  with  it ;  to  gaze  on  empty 
frames,  and  be  forced  to  make  the  pictures  for 
yourself;  to  read  a  book  all  stops,  and  be 
obliged  to  supply  the  verbal  matter ;  to  invent 
extempore  tragedies  to  answer  to  the  vague 
gestures  of  an  inexplicable  rambling  mime — 
these  are  faint  shadows  of  what  I  have  under- 
gone from  a  series  of  the  ablest-executed  pieces 
of  this  ^va-^ty  instrumental  music. — \^A  Chapter 
on  Ears? 

A  Wife's  Treatment  of  Her  Husband's 
Friend. — These  are  some  of  the  mortifications 
which  I  have  encountered  in  the  absurd  attempt 
to  visit  at  their  houses.  To  enumerate  them  all 
would  be  a  vain  endeavor :  I  shall  therefore 
just  glance  at  the  very  common  impropriety  of 


28  Cbarles  Xamb*6 

which  married  ladies  are  guilty, — of  treating  us 
as  if  we  were  their  husbands,  and  vice  versd.  I 
mean,  when  they  use  us  with  familiarity,  and 
their  husbands  with  ceremony.  Testacea,  for 
instance,  kept  me  the  other  night  two  or  three 
hours  beyond  my  usual  time  of  supping,  while 

she  was  fretting  because   Mr.    did   not 

come  home  till  the  oysters  were  all  spoiled, 
rather  than  she  would  be  guilty  of  the  impolite- 
ness of  touching  one  in  his  absence.  This  was 
reversing  the  point  of  good  manners  :  for  cere- 
mony is  an  invention  to  take  off  the  uneasy  feel- 
ing which  we  derive  from  knowing  ourselves  to 
be  less  the  object  of  love  and  esteem  with  a 
fellow-creature  than  some  other  person  is.  It 
endeavors  to  make  up,  by  superior  attentions 
in  little  points,  for  that  invidious  preference 
which  it  is  forced  to  deny  in  the  greater.  Had 
Testacea  kept  the  oysters  back  for  me,  and 
withstood  her  husband's  importunities  to  go  to 
supper,  she  would  have  acted  according  to  the 
strict  rules  of  propriety.  I  know  no  ceremony 
that  ladies  are  bound  to  observe  to  their  hus- 
bands, beyond  the  point  of  a  modest  behavior 


Idtt  anD  TlXIl(5&om 


and  decorum  :  therefore  I  must  protest  against 
the  vicarious  gluttony  of  Cerasia,  who  at  her 
own  table  sent  away  a  dish  of  Morellas,  which  I 
was  applying  to  with  great  good-will,  to  her 
husband  at  the  other  end  of  the  table,  and 
recommended  a  plate  of  less  extraordinary 
gooseberries  to  my  unwedded  palate  in  their 
stead.     Neither  can  I  excuse  the  wanton  affront 

of 

But  I  am  weary  of  stringing  up  all  my  married 
acquaintance  by  Roman  denominations,  lyct 
them  amend  and  change  their  manners,  or  I 
promise  to  record  the  full-length  English  of 
their  names  to  the  terror  of  all  such  desperate 
offenders  in  future. — \_A  Bachelor's  Complaint 
of  the  Behavior  of  Married  People. '\ 

On  Loving  Chii^dren. — I  know  there  is  a 
proverb,  *'  lyove  me,  love  my  dog  "  ;  that  is  not 
always  so  very  practicable,  particularly  if  the 
dog  be  set  upon  you  to  tease  you  or  snap  at 
you  in  sport.  But  a  dog,  or  a  lesser  thing — any 
inanimate  substance,  as  a  keepsake,  a  watch  or 
a  ring,  a  tree,  or  the  place  where  we  last  parted 


30  Cbarlcs  Xamb's 

when  my  friend  went  away  upon  a  long  ab- 
sence, I  can  make  shift  to  love,  because  I  love 
him,  and  anything  that  reminds  me  of  him, 
provided  it  be  in  its  nature  indifferent,  and  apt 
to  receive  whatever  hue  fancy  can  give  it.  But 
children  have  a  real  character  and  essential 
being  of  themselves  :  they  are  amiable  or  un- 
amiahle  per  se ;  I  must  love  or  hate  them  as  I 
see  cause  for  either  in  their  qualities.  A  child's 
nature  is  too  serious  a  thing  to  admit  of  its 
being  regarded  as  a  mere  appendage  to  another 
being,  and  to  be  loved  or  hated  accordingly  : 
they  stand  with  me  upon  their  own  stock,  as 
much  as  men  and  women  do.  O  !  but  3'ou  will 
say,  sure  it  is  an  attractive  age, — there  is  some- 
thing in  the  tender  years  of  infancy  that  of 
itself  charms  us.  That  is  the  very  reason  why 
I  am  more  nice  about  them.  I  know  that  a 
sweet  child  is  the  sweetest  thing  in  nature,  not 
even  excepting  the  delicate  creatures  which 
bear  them  ;  but  the  prettier  the  kind  of  a  thing 
is,  the  more  desirable  it  is  that  it  should  be 
pretty  of  its  kind.  One  daisy  differs  not  much 
from  another  in  glory  ;  but  a  violet  should  look 


and  smell  the  daintiest. — I  was  always  rather 
squeamish  in  my  women  and  children. — ^A 
Bachelor's  Complaint  of  the  Behavior  of  Mar- 
ried People.'] 

Imagining  a  Distant  Country. — I  cannot 
imagine  to  myself  whereabout  you  are.  When 
I  try  to  fix  it,  Peter  Wilkins's  island  comes 
across  me.  Sometimes  you  seem  to  be  in  the 
Hades  of  Thieves.  I  see  Diogenes  prying 
among  you  with  his  perpetual  fruitless  lan- 
tern. What  must  you  be  willing  by  this  time 
to  give  for  the  sight  of  an  honest  man  !  You 
must  almost  have  forgotten  how  zue  look.  And 
tell  me,  what  your  Sydneyites  do  ?  are  they 
th**v*ng  all  day  long  ?  Merciful  heaven  !  what 
property  can  stand  against  such  a  depredation  ! 
The  kangaroos — your  Aborigines — do  they  keep 
their  primitive  simplicity  un-Europe-tainted, 
with  those  little  short  fore-puds,  looking  like  a 
lesson  framed  by  nature  to  the  pickpocket ! 
Marry,  for  diving  into  fobs  they  are  rather 
lamely  provided  a  priori ;  but  if  the  hue  and 
cry  were  once  up,  they  would  show  as  fair  a 


32  Cbarles  Xamb's 


pair  of  hind-shifters  as  the  expertest  loco-motor 
in  the  colony. — {^Distant  Cor  respondents. 1 

The  Prominence  of  the  Morai.  Point. — 
We  have  been  spoiled  with — not  sentimental 
comedy — but  a  tyrant  far  more  pernicious  to 
our  pleasures  which  has  succeeded  to  it,  the 
exclusive  and  all-devouring  drama  of  common 
life  ;  where  the  moral  point  is  everything ; 
where,  instead  of  the  fictitious  half-believed 
personages  of  the  stage  (the  phantoms  of  old 
comedy)  we  recognize  ourselves,  our  brothers, 
aunts,  kinsfolk,  allies,  patrons,  enemies, — the 
same  as  in  life, — with  an  interest  in  what  is 
going  on  so  hearty  and  substantial,  that  we 
cannot  afford  our  moral  judgment,  in  its  deepest 
and  most  vital  results,  to  compromise  or  slum- 
ber for  a  moment. — \0n  the  Artificial  Comedy 
of  the  Last  Ce7itury.'\ 

The  Commonness  of  ChiIvDren.— When  I 
consider  how  little  of  a  rarity  children  are, — 
that  ever>^  street  and  blind  alley  swarms  with 
them, — that  the  poorest  people  commonly  have 


IKIlft  anD  iailf5Dom  33 


them  in  most  abundance, — that  there  are  few 
marriages  that  are  not  blessed  with  at  least  one 
of  these  bargains, — how  often  they  turn  out  ill, 
and  defeat  the  fond  hopes  of  their  parents, 
taking  to  vicious  courses,  which  end  in  pov- 
erty, disgrace,  the  gallows,  etc. — I  cannot  for 
my  life  tell  what  cause  for  pride  there  can  pos- 
sibly be  in  having  them.  If  they  were  young 
phoenixes,  indeed,  that  were  born  but  one  in  a 
year,  there  might  be  a  pretext.     But  when  they 

are  so  common [A  Bachelor's  Complaint  of 

the  Behavior  of  Married  People. "l 

On  Exchanging  Presents. — I  am  one  of 
those  who  freely  and  ungrudgingly  impart  a 
share  of  the  good  things  of  this  life  which  fall 
to  their  lot  (few  as  mine  are  in  this  kind)  to  a 
friend.  I  protest  I  take  as  great  an  interest  in 
my  friend's  pleasures,  his  relishes,  and  proper 
satisfactions,  as  in  mine  own.  ''Presents,"  I 
often  say,  "endear  Absents."  Hares,  pheas- 
ants, partridges,  snipes,  barn-door  chickens 
(those  "tame  villatic  fowl"),  capons,  plovers, 
brawn,  barrels  of  oysters,  I  dispense  as  freely 


34  Cbarles  Xamb's 

as  I  receive  them.  I  love  to  taste  them,  as  it 
were,  upon  the  tongue  of  my  friend.  But  a 
stop  must  be  put  somewhere.  One  would  not, 
like  Lear,  "give  everything."  I  make  my 
stand  upon  pig.  Methinks  it  is  an  ingratitude 
to  the  Giver  of  all  good  favors,  to  extradom- 
iciliate,  or  send  out  of  the  house,  slightingly 
(under  pretext  of  friendship,  or  I  know  not 
what),  a  blessing  so  particularly  adapted,  pre- 
destined, I  may  say,  to  my  individual  palate — 
It  argues  an  insensibility. — [A  Dissertation 
upon  Roast  Pig.'] 

Married  Pe;opi:.E. — But  what  I  complain  of 
is,  that  they  carry  this  preference  so  undis- 
guisedly,  they  perk  it  up  in  the  faces  of  us  sin- 
gle people  so  shamelessly,  you  cannot  be  in 
their  company  a  moment  without  being  made 
to  feel,  by  some  indirect  hint  or  open  avowal, 
that  yo7^  are  not  the  object  of  this  preference. 
Now  there  are  some  things  which  give  no 
offence,  while  implied  or  taken  for  granted 
merely  ;  but  expressed,  there  is  much  offence 
in   them.     If  a  man   were   to  accost  the   first 


limit  anD  mf0Dom  35 


hotnely-featured  or  plain-dressed  young  woman 
of  his  acquaintance,  and  tell  her  bluntly,  that 
she  was  not  handsome  or  rich  enough  for  him, 
and  he  could  not  marry  her,  he  would  deserve 
to  be  kicked  for  his  ill  manners  ;  yet  no  less  is 
implied  in  the  fact,  that  having  access  and 
opportunity  of  putting  the  question  to  her,  he 
has  never  yet  thought  fit  to  do  it.  The  young 
woman  understands  this  as  clearly  as  if  it  were 
put  into  words ;  but  no  reasonable  young 
woman  would  think  of  making  this  the  ground 
of  a  quarrel.  Just  as  little  right  have  a  married 
couple  to  tell  me  by  speeches,  and  looks  that 
are  scarce  less  plain  than  speeches,  that  I  am 
not  the  happy  man, — the  lady's  choice.  It  is 
enough  that  I  know  that  I  am  not ;  I  do  not  want 
this  perpetual  reminding. — [A  Bachelor's  Com- 
plaint of  the  Behavior  of  Married  People. '\ 

Chimney-Sweeps. — I  like  to  meet  a  sweep — 
understand  me — not  a  grown  sweeper — old 
chimney-sweepers  are  by  no  means  attractive — 
but  one  of  those  tender  novices,  bloominr 
through    their    first    nigritude,    the    maternal 


36  Cbarles  Xamb's 

washings  not  quite  effaced  from  the  cheek — 
such  as  come  forth  with  the  dawn,  or  somewhat 
earlier,  with  their  little  professional  notes 
sounding  like  the  peep  peep  of  a  young  spar- 
row ;  or  liker  to  the  matin  lark  should  I  pro- 
nounce them,  in  their  aerial  ascents  not  seldom 
anticipating  the  sunrise  ? 

I  have  a  kindly  yearning  towards  these  dim 
specks — poor  blots — innocent  blacknesses — 

I  reverence  these  j'oung  Africans  of  our  own 
growth — these  almost  clergy  imps,  who  sport 
their  cloth  without  assumption  ;  and  from  their 
little  pulpits  (the  tops  of  chimneys),  in  the  nip- 
ping air  of  a  December  morning,  preach  a 
lesson  of  patience  to  mankind. — \^The  Pi'aise  of 
Chim7iey  Sweepers.  ] 

A  Street  Scene. — I  am  by  nature  extremely 
susceptible  of  street  affronts ;  the  jeers  and 
taunts  of  the  populace  ;  the  low-bred  triumph 
they  display  over  the  casual  trip,  or  splashed 
stocking,  of  a  gentleman.  Yet  can  I  endure 
the  jocularity  of  a  young  sweep  with  some- 
thing more  than  forgiveness.  In  the  last  winter 


mn  anD  "MisOom  37 

but  one,  pacing  along  Cheapside  with  my  ac- 
customed precipitation  when  I  walk  westward, 
a  treacherous  slide  brought  me  upon  my  back 
in  an  instant.  I  scrambled  up  with  pain  and 
shame  enough — yet  outwardly  trying  to  face  it 
down,  as  if  nothing  had  happened — when  the 
roguish  grin  of  one  of  these  young  wits  en- 
countered me.  There  he  stood,  pointing  me 
out  with  his  dusky  finger  to  the  mob,  and  to  a 
poor  woman  (I  suppose  his  mother)  in  par- 
ticular, till  the  tears  for  the  exquisiteness  of 
the  fun  (so  he  thought  it)  worked  themselves 
out  at  the  corners  of  his  poor  red  eyes,  red 
from  many  a  previous  weeping,  and  soot-in- 
flamed, yet  twinkling  through  all  with  such  a 
joy,  snatched  out  of  desolation,  that  Hogarth 
— but  Hogarth  has  got  him  already  (how  could 
he  miss  him  ? )  in  the  March  to  Finchley,  grin- 
ning at  the  pie-man — there  he  stood,  as  he 
stands  in  the  picture,  irremovable,  as  if  the  jest 
was  to  last  forever — with  such  a  maximum  of 
glee,  and  minimum  of  mischief,  in  his  mirth — 
for  the  grin  of  a  genuine  sweep  hath  absolutely 
no  malice  in  it — that  I  could  have  been  content, 


38  Gbarles  Xamb's 

if  the  honor  of  a  gentleman  might  endure  it,  to 
have  remained  his  butt  and  his  mockery  till 
midnight. — [  The  Praise  ofChijmiey  Sweepets.  ] 

A  Character  Sketch. — F.  was  the  most 
gentlemanly  of  oilmen — grandiloquent,  yet 
courteous.  His  delivery  of  the  commonest 
matters  of  fact  was  Ciceronian.  He  had  two 
I/atin  words  almost  constantly  iu  his  mouth 
(how  odd  sounds  Latin  from  an  oilman's  lips  ! ) 
which  my  better  knowledge  since  has  enabled 
me  to  correct.  In  strict  pronunciation  they 
should  have  been  sounded  vice  versa — but  in 
those  young  years  they  impressed  me  with 
more  awe  than  they  would  now  do,  read  aright 
from  Seneca  or  Varro — in  his  own  peculiar 
pronunciation,  monosyllabically  elaborated,  or 
Anglicized,  into  something  like  verse  verse. 
By  an  imposing  manner,  and  the  help  of  these 
distorted  syllables,  he  climbed  (but  that  was 
little)  to  the  highest  parochial  honors  which 
St.  Andrew's  has  to  bestow. — \_My  First  Play.] 

Puns. — A  pun  hath  a  hearty  kind  of  present 
ear-kissing  smack  with  it ;  you  can  no  more 


mit  anD  misDom  30 

transmit  it  in  its  pristine  flavor,  than  you  can 
send  a  kiss.  Have  you  not  tried  in  some  in- 
stances to  palm  o£f  a  yesterday's  pun  upon  a 
gentleman,  and  has  it  answered  ?  Not  but  it 
\gas  new  to  his  hearing,  but  it  did  not  seem  to 
come  new  from  you.  It  did  not  hitch  in.  It 
was  like  picking  up  at  a  village  ale-house  a  two 
days'  old  newspaper.  You  have  not  seen  it 
before,  but  you  resent  the  stale  thing  as  an 
affront.  This  sort  of  merchandise  above  all  re- 
quires a  quick  return.  A  pun,  and  its  recognitory 
laugh,  must  be  co-instantaneous.  The  one  is 
the  brisk  lightning,  the  other  the  fierce  thunder. 
A  moment's  interval,  and  the  link  is  snapped. 
A  pun  is  reflected  from  a  friend's  face  as  from 
a  mirror.  Who  would  consult  his  sweet  vis- 
nomy,  if  the  polished  surface  were  two  or  three 
minutes  (not  to  speak  of  twelve  months,  my 
dear  F.)  in  giving  back  its  copy  ? — \_Distant  Cor- 
respondents.'] 

A  Woman's  Character. — What  a  woman 
should  demand  of  a  man  in  courtship,  or  after 
it,  is  first — respect  for  her  as  she  is  a  woman  ; — 


40  Cbarles  Xamb'6 

and  next  to  that7-to  be  respected  by  him  above 
all  other  women.  But  let  her  stand  upon  her 
female  character  as  upon  a  foundation  ;  and  let 
the  attentions,  incident  to  individual  prefer- 
ence, be  so  many  pretty  additaments  aijd 
ornaments — as  many  and  as  fanciful,  as  you 
please — to  that  main  structure.  Let  her  first 
lesson  be — with  sweet  Susan  Winstanley — to 
reverence  her  sex. — \_Modern  Gallantry. "X 

Consistent  Gai^i^antry.— Joseph  Paice,  of 
Bread  Street  Hill,  merchant,  and  one  of  the 
Directors  of  the  South-Sea  Company — the  same 
to  whom  Edwards,  the  Shakespeare  commenta- 
tor, has  addressed  a  fine  sonnet — was  the  only 
pattern  of  consistent  gallantry  I  have  met 
with.  He  took  me  under  his  shelter  at  an 
early  age,  and  bestowed  some  pains  upon  me. 
I  owe  to  his  precepts  and  example  whatever 
there  is  of  the  man  of  business  (and  that  is  not 
much)  in  my  composition.  It  was  not  his 
fault  that  I  did  not  profit  more.  Though  bred 
a  Presbyterian,  and  brought  up  a  merchant,  he 
was  the  finest  gentleman  of  his  time.     He  had 


not  one  system  of  attention  to  females  in  the 
drawing-room,  and  another  in  the  shop,  or  at 
the  stall.  I  do  not  mean  that  he  made  no 
distinction.  But  he  never  lost  sight  of  sex,  or 
overlooked  it  in  the  casualties  of  a  disadvan- 
tageous situation.  I  have  seen  him  stand  bare- 
headed— smile  if  you  please — to  a  poor  servant 
girl,  while  she  has  been  inquiring  of  him  the 
way  to  some  street — in  such  a  posture  of  un- 
forced civility,  as  neither  to  embarrass  her  in 
the  acceptance,  nor  himself  in  the  offer,  of  it. 
He  was  no  dangler,  in  the  common  acceptation 
of  the  word,  after  women  ;  but  he  reverenced 
and  upheld,  in  every  form  in  which  it  came 
before  him,  womanhood.  I  have  seen  him — 
nay,  smile  not — tenderly  escorting  a  market- 
woman,  whom  he  had  encountered  in  a  shower, 
exalting  his  umbrella  over  her  poor  basket  of 
fruit,  that  it  might  receive  no  damage,  with  as 
much  carefulness  as  if  she  had  been  a  countess. 
To  the  reverend  form  of  Female  Bid  he  would 
yield  the  wall  (though  it  were  to  an  ancient 
beggar-woman)  with  more  ceremony  than  we 
could  afford  to  show  our  grandams.    He  was  the 


42  Cbarles  Xamb'6 

Preux  Chevalier  of  Age  ;  the  Sir  Calidore,  or  Sir 
Tristan,  to  those  who  have  no  Calidores  or  Tris- 
tans to  defend  them.  The  roses,  that  had  long 
faded  thence,  still  bloomed  for  him  in  those  with- 
ered and  yellow  cheeks. — [Modem  Galla7itry.'] 

Respect  for  Woman. — I  wish  the  whole 
female  world  would  entertain  the  same  notion 
of  these  things  that  Miss  Winstanley  showed. 
Then  we  should  see  something  of  the  spirit  of 
consistent  gallantry  ;  and  no  longer  witness  the 
anomaly  of  the  same  man — a  pattern  of  true 
politeness  to  a  wife — of  cold  contempt,  or  rude- 
ness, to  a  sister — the  idolater  of  his  female 
mistress — the  disparager  and  despiser  of  his  no 
less  female  aunt,  or  unfortunate — still  female — 
maiden  cousin.  Just  so  much  respect  as  a 
woman  derogates  from  her  own  sex,  in  what- 
ever condition  placed — her  handmaid,  or  de- 
pendent—she deserves  to  have  diminished  from 
herself  on  that  score  ;  and  probably  will  feel 
the  diminution,  when  youth,  and  beauty,  and 
advantages,  not  inseparable  from  sex,  shall 
lose  of  their  Sii\.r2iQi\or\.— [Modem  Galla?it?y.'\ 


mit  an^  MisDom  43 

The  Scotch  Temperament.— Above  all, 
you  must  beware  of  indirect  expressions  be- 
fore a  Caledonian.  Clap  an  extinguisher  upon 
your  irony,  if  3-ou  are  unhappily  blest  with  a 
vein  of  it.  Remember  you  are  upon  your 
oath.  I  have  a  print  of  a  graceful  female,  after 
I^eonardo  da  Vinci,  which  I  was  showing  off  to 

Mr.  .    After  he  had  examined  it  minutely, 

I  ventured  to  ask  him  how  he  liked  3:/y  Beauty 
(a  foolish  name  it  goes  by  among  my  friends), 
when  he  very  gravely  assured  me,  that  "he  had 
considerable  respect  for  my  character  and 
talents  "  (so  he  was  pleased  to  say),  "but  had 
not  given  himself  much  thought  about  the 
degree  of  my  personal  pretensions."  The  mis- 
conception staggered  me,  but  did  not  seem 
much  to  disconcert  him. — {^Imperfect  Sympa- 
thies. ] 

Lack  of  Humor  in  Scotchmen. — I  was 
present  not  long  since  at  a  party  of  North 
Britons,  where  a  son  of  Burns  was  expected ; 
and  happened  to  drop  a  silly  expression  (in  my 
South  British  way),  that  I  wished  it  were  the 


44  Cbarles  Xamb's 

father  instead  of  the  son — when  four  of  them 
started  up  at  once  to  inform  me,  that  "that  was 
impossible,  because  he  was  dead."  An  im- 
practicable wish,  it  seems,  was  more  than  they 
could  conceive. — \_Imperfect  Sympathies.'] 

Scotch  Character. — I  have  been  trying  all 
my  life  to  like  Scotchmen,  and  am  obliged  to 
desist  from  the  experiment  in  despair.  They 
cannot  like  me — and,  in  truth,  I  never  knew 
one  of  that  nation  who  attempted  to  do  it 
There  is  something  more  plain  and  ingenuous 
in  their  mode  of  proceeding.  We  know  one 
another  at  first  sight.  There  is  an  order  of  im- 
perfect intellects  (under  which  mine  must  be 
content  to  rank)  which  in  its  constitution  is 
essentially  anti-Caledonian.  The  owners  of  the 
sort  of  faculties  I  allude  to,  have  minds  rather 
suggestive  than  comprehensive.  They  have  no 
pretences  to  much  clearness  or  precision  in 
their  ideas,  or  in  their  manner  of  expressing 
them.  Their  intellectual  wardrobe  (to  confess 
fairly)  has  few  whole  pieces  in  it.  They  are 
content  with  fragments  and  scattered  pieces  of 


Timft  anD  MlsDom  45 

Truth.  She  presents  no  full  front  to  them — a 
feature  or  side-face  at  the  most.  Hints  and 
glimpses,  germs  and  crude  essays  at  a  system, 
is  the  utmost  they  pretend  to.  They  beat  up  a 
little  game  perad venture — and  leave  it  to  knot- 
tier heads,  more  robust  constitutions,  to  run  it 
down.  The  light  that  lights  them  is  not  steady 
and  polar,  but  mutable  and  shifting ;  waxing, 
and  again  waning.  Their  conversation  is 
accordingly.  They  will  throw  out  a  random 
Vv-ord  in  or  out  of  season,  and  be  content  to  let 
it  pass  for  what  it  is  worth.  They  cannot  speak 
always,  as  if  they  were  upon  their  oath — biit 
must  be  understood,  speaking  or  writing,  with 
some  abatement.  They  seldom  wait  to  mature 
a  proposition,  but  e'en  bring  it  to  market  in  the 
green  ear.  They  delight  to  impart  their  defec- 
tive discoveries,  as  they  arise,  without  waiting 
for  their  full  development.  They  are  no  sys- 
tematizers,  and  would  but  err  more  by  attempt- 
ing it.  Their  minds,  as  I  said  before,  are 
suggestive  merely.  The  brain  of  a  true  Cale- 
donian (if  I  am  not  mistaken)  is  constituted 
upon  quite  a  different  plan.     His  Minerva  is 


46  Cbarles  Xamb's 


bom  in  panoply.     You  are  never  admitted  to 

see  his  ideas  in  their  growth — if,  indeed,  they 
do  grow,  and  are  not  rather  put  together  upon 
principles  of  clockwork.  You  never  catch  his 
mind  in  an  undress.  He  never  hints  or  sug- 
gests anything,  but  unlades  his  stock  of  ideas 
in  perfect  order  and  completeness.  He  brings 
his  total  wealth  into  company,  and  gravely 
unpacks  it.  His  riches  are  always  about  him. 
He  never  stoops  to  catch  a  glittering  something 
in  your  presence,  to  share  it  with  you,  before 
he  quite  knows  whether  it  be  true  touch  or  not. 
You  cannot  cry  halves  to  anything  that  he  finds. 
He  does  not  find,  but  bring.  You  never  witness 
his  first  apprehension  of  a  thing.  His  under- 
standing is  always  at  its  meridian — you  never 
see  the  first  dawn,  the  early  streaks.  He  has 
no  falterings  of  self-suspicion.  Surmises, 
guesses,  misgivings,  half-intuitions,  semi-con- 
sciousness, partial  illuminations,  dim  instincts, 
embryo  conceptions,  have  no  place  in  his  brain, 
or  vocabular}\  The  twilight  of  dubiety  never 
falls  upon  him.  Is  he  orthodox — he  has  no 
doubts.     Is  he  an  infidel — he  has  none  either. 


mil  anO  limtsDom  47 


Between  the  affirmative  and  the  negative  there 
is  no  border-land  with  him.  You  cannot  hover 
with  him  upon  the  confines  of  truth,  or  wander 
in  the  maze  of  a  probable  argument.  He  always 
keeps  the  path.  You  cannot  make  excursions 
with  him — for  he  sets  you  right.  His  taste 
never  fluctuates.  His  morality  never  abates. 
.  .  .  He  stops  a  metaphor  like  a  suspected 
person  in  an  enemy's  country.  *'  A  healthy 
book!" — said  one  of  his  countrymen  to  me, 
who  had  ventured  to  give  that  appellation  to 
John  Buncle, — "  did  I  catch  rightly  what  you 
said  ?  I  have  heard  of  a  man  in  health,  and  of 
a  healthy  state  of  body,  but  I  do  not  see  how 
that  epithet  can  be  properly  applied  to  a  book." 
— \_I7nperfect  Sympathies. '\ 

Bi^UK  China. — I  had  no  repugnance  then — 
why  should  I  now  have  ? — to  those  little  law- 
less, azure -tinctured  grotesques,  that  under  the 
notion  of  men  and  women,  float  about,  uncir- 
cumscribed  by  any  element,  in  that  world 
before  perspective — a  china  teacup. 

I  like  to  see  my  old  friends — whom  distance 


48  Cbarlee  Xamb's 

cannot  diminish — figuring  up  in  the  air  (so  they 
appear  to  our  optics),  yet  on  terra,  fii'rna  still — 
for  so  we  must  in  courtesy  interpret  that  speck 
of  deep  blue,  which  the  decorous  artist,  to  pre- 
vent absurdity,  has  made  to  spring  up  beneath 
their  sandals. 

I  love  the  men  with  women's  faces,  and  the 
women,  if  possible,  with  still  more  womanish 
expressions. 

Here  is  a  young  and  courtly  Mandarin,  hand- 
ing tea  to  a  lady  from  a  salver — two  miles  off. 
See  how  distance  seems  to  set  off  respect !  And 
here  the  same  lady,  or  another — for  likeness  is 
identity  on  teacups — is  stepping  into  a  little 
fairy  boat,  moored  on  the  other  side  of  this 
calm  garden  river,  with  a  dainty  mincing  foot, 
which  in  a  right  angle  of  incidence  (as  angles 
go  in  our  world)  must  infallibly  land  her  in  the 
midst  of  a  flowery  mead — a  furlong  off  on  the 
other  side  of  the  same  strange  stream  ! 

Farther  on — if  far  or  near  can  be  predicated 
of  their  world — see  horses,  trees,  pagodas,  dan- 
cing the  hays. 

Here — a  cow  and  rabbit  couchant,   and  co- 


extensive — so  objects  show,  seen  through  the 
lucid  atmosphere  of  fine  Cathay. — [^Old  China.'\ 

Vacations. — I  am  fond  of  passing  my  vaca- 
tions (I  believe  I  have  said  so  before)  at  one  or 
other  of  the  Universities.  Next  to  these  my 
choice  would  fix  me  at  some  woody  spot,  such 
as  the  neighborhood  of  Henley  affords  in 
abundance,  upon  the  banks  of  my  beloved 
Thames.  But  somehow  or  other  my  cousin 
contrives  to  wheedle  me  once  in  three  or  four 
seasons  to  a  watering-place.  Old  attachments 
cling  to  her  in  spite  of  experience.  We  have 
been  dull  at  Worthing  one  summer,  duller  at 
Brighton  another,  dullest  at  Eastbourne  a 
third,  and  are  at  this  moment  doing  dreary 
penance  at — Hastings  ! — and  all  because  we 
were  happy  many  years  ago  for  a  brief  week  at 
— Margate.  That  was  our  first  seaside  experi- 
ment, and  many  circumstances  combined  to 
make  it  the  most  agreeable  holiday  of  my  life. 
We  had  neither  of  us  seen  the  sea,  and  we  had 
never  been  from  home  so  long  together  in  com- 
pany.— Sjrhe  Old  Margate  Hoy. 1 


50  Cbarles  Xamb's 

A  SCKNE  IN  A  Crowd. — I  was  once  amused — 
there  is  a  pleasure  in  affecting  affectation — at 
the  indigijation  of  a  crowd  that  was  jostling  in 
with  me  at  the  pit-door  of  Covent  Garden 
Theatre,  to  have  a  sight  of  Master  Betty — then 
at  once  in  his  dawn  and  his  meridian — in  Ham- 
let. I  had  been  invited,  quite  unexpectedly,  to 
join  a  party,  whom  I  met  near  the  door  of 
the  play-house,  and  I  happened  to  have  in  my 
hand  a  large  octavo  of  Johnson  and  Steevens' 
Shakespeare,  which,  the  time  not  admitting  of 
my  carrying  it  home,  of  course  went  with  me 
to  the  theatre.  Just  in  the  very  heat  and  pres- 
sure of  the  doors  opening — the  rush,  as  they 
term  it — I  deliberately  held  the  volume  over 
my  head,  open  at  the  scene  in  which  the 
young  Roscius  had  been  most  cried  up,  and 
quietly  read  by  the  lamplight.  The  clamor 
became  universal.  "The  affectation  of  the 
fellow,"  cried  one.  "  lyook  at  that  gentleman 
reading,  papa,"  squeaked  a  young  lady,  who, 
in  her  admiration  of  the  novelty,  almost  forgot 
her  fears.  I  read  on.  *'He  ought  to  have  his 
book  knocked  out  of  his  hand,"  exclaimed  a 


pursy  cit,  whose  arms  were  too  fast  pinioned  to 
his  side  to  suffer  him  to  execute  his  kind  inten- 
tion. Still  I  read  on — and,  till  the  time  came 
to  pay  my  money,  kept  as  unmoved  as  Saint 
Anthony  at  his  holy  offices,  with  the  satyrs, 
apes,  and  hobgoblins  mopping  and  making 
mouths  at  him,  in  the  picture,  while  the  good 
man  sits  as  undisturbed  at  the  sight  as  if  he 
were  the  sole  tenant  of  the  desert. — The  indi- 
vidual rabble  (I  recognized  more  than  one  of 
their  ugly  faces)  had  damned  a  slight  piece  of 
mine  a  few  nights  before,  and  I  was  determined 
the  culprits  should  not  a  second  time  put  me 
out  of  countenance. — \_Detached  Thoughts  on 
Books  and  Reading."] 

The  Poor  ReI/ATion.— A  poor  relation— is 
the  most  irrelevant  thing  in  nature, — a  piece  of 
impertinent  correspondency,- — an  odious  ap- 
proximation,— a  haunting  conscience, — a  pre- 
posterous shadow,  lengthening  in  the  noontide 
of  your  prosperity, — an  unwelcome  remem- 
brancer,— a  perpetually  recurring  mortification, 
— a  drain  on  your  purse, — a  more  intolerable 


52  Cbarles  Xamb's 

dun  upon  your  pride, — a  drawback  upon  suc- 
cess,— a  rebuke  to  your  rising, — a  stain  in  your 
blood, — a  blot  on  your  'scutcheon, — a  rent  in 
your  garment, — a  death's  head  at  your  banquet, 
— Agathocles'  pot, — a  Mordecai  in  your  gate, — 
a  Lazarus  at  your  door, — a  lion  in  your  path, — 
a  frog  in  your  chamber, — a  fly  in  your  oint- 
ment,— a  mote  in  your  eye, — a  triumph  to  your 
enemy, — an  apology  to  your  friends, — the  one 
thing  not  needful, — the  hail  in  harvest, — the 
ounce  of  sour  in  a  pound  of  sweet. — {Poor  de- 
lations.'] 

A  Spinner  of  Yarns.— With  these  addita- 
ments  to  boot,  we  had  on  board  a  fellow- 
passenger,  whose  discourse  in  verity  might 
have  beguiled  a  longer  voyage  than  we  medi- 
tated, and  have  made  mirth  and  wonder  abound 
as  far  as  the  Azores.  He  was  a  dark,  Spanish- 
complexioned  young  man,  remarkably  hand- 
some, with  an  officer-like  assurance,  and  an  in- 
suppressible  volubility  of  assertion.  He  was, 
in  fact,  the  greatest  liar  I  had  met  with  then, 
or  since.     He  was  none  of  your  hesitating,  half 


Wit  auD  TimisOom  53 

story-tellers  (a  most  painful  description  of 
mortals)  who  go  on  sounding  your  belief,  and 
only  giving  you  as  much  as  they  see  you  can 
swallow  at  a  time — the  nibbling  pickpockets  of 
your  patience — but  one  who  committed  down- 
right, daylight  depredations  upon  his  neigh- 
bor's faith.  He  did  not  stand  shivering  upon 
the  brink,  but  was  a  hearty,  thorough-paced 
liar,  and  plunged  at  once  into  the  depths  of 
your  credulity. — [  The  Old  Margate  Hoy.'] 

A  Damaged  Coi^ossus.— His  dreaming 
fancies  had  transported  us  beyond  the  "igno- 
rant present."  But  when  (still  hardying  more 
and  more  in  his  triumphs  over  our  simplicity) 
he  went  on  to  affirm  that  he  had  actually  sailed 
through  the  legs  of  the  Colossus  at  Rhodes,  it 
really  became  necessary  to  make  a  stand.  And 
here  I  must  do  justice  to  the  good  sense  and 
intrepidity  of  one  of  our  party,  a  youth,  that 
had  hitherto  been  one  of  his  most  deferential 
auditors,  who,  from  his  recent  reading,  made 
bold  to  assure  the  gentleman  that  there  must 
be  some  mistake,  as  "the  Colossus  in  question 


54  Cbarles  Xamb^s 

had  been  destroyed  long  since " ;  to  whose 
opinion,  delivered  with  all  modesty,  our  hero 
was  obliging  enough  to  concede  thus  much, 
that  ''the  figure  was  indeed  a  little  damaged." 
This  was  the  only  opposition  he  met  with,  and 
it  did  not  at  all  seem  to  stagger  him,  for  he 
proceeded  with  his  fables,  which  the  same 
youth  appeared  to  swallow  with  still  more  com- 
placency than  ever, — confirmed,  as  it  were  by 
the  extreme  candor  of  that  concession. — \The 
Old  Margate  Hoy.'] 

The  SmuggIvER. — I  like  a  smuggler.  He  is 
the  only  honest  thief.  He  robs  nothing  but  the 
revenue, — an  abstraction  I  never  greatly  cared 
about— [77/^  Old  Margate  Hoy.] 

DiSl/iKE  OF  THE  SEA-Shore.  —  I  cannot 
stand  all  day  on  the  naked  beach,  watching  the 
capricious  hues  of  the  seas,  shifting  like  the 
colors  of  a  dying  mullet.  I  am  tired  of  looking 
out  at  the  windows  of  this  island-prison.  I 
would  fain  retire  into  the  interior  of  my  cage. 
"While  I  gaze  upon  the  sea,  I  want  to  be  on  it, 
over  it,  across  it.     It  binds  me  in  with  chains. 


limit  anD  mtsDorn  55 

as  of  iron.  My  thoughts  are  abroad. — \^The  Old 
Margate  Hoy.'] 

Affectation  of  Town  Visitors.— But  it  is 
the  visitants  from  town  that  come  here  to  say 
that  they  have  been  here,  with  no  more  relish 
of  the  sea  than  a  pond  perch,  or  a  dace  might 
be  supposed  to  have,  that  are  my  aversion.  I 
feel  like  a  foolish  dace  in  these  regions,  and 
have  as  little  toleration  for  myself  here,  as  for 
them.  What  can  they  want  here  ?  if  they  had 
a  true  relish  of  the  ocean,  why  have  they 
brought  all  this  land  luggage  with  them?  or 
why  pitch  their  civilized  tents  in  the  desert  ? 
What  mean  these  scanty  book-rooms — marine 
libraries  as  they  entitle  them — if  the  sea  were, 
as  they  would  have  us  believe,  a  book  "  to  read 
strange  matter  in  "  ?  What  are  their  foolish  con- 
cert-rooms, if  the}^  come,  as  they  would  fain  be 
thought  to  do,  to  listen  to  the  music  of  the 
waves.  All  is  false  and  hollow  pretension. 
They  come,  because  it  is  the  fashion,  and  to 
spoil  the  nature  of  the  place. — {^The  Old  Mar- 
gate Hoy.  ] 


56  Cbarles  Xamb*s 

The  Pridk  oi^  Ancestry. — To  have  the 
feeling  of  gentility,  it  is  not  necessary  to  have 
been  born  gentle.  The  pride  of  ancestry  may 
be  had  on  cheaper  terms  than  to  be  obliged  to 
an  importunate  race  of  ancestors  ;  and  the  coat- 
less  antiquary  in  his  unemblazoned  cell,  revolv- 
ing the  long  line  of  a  Mowbray's  or  De  Clif- 
ford's pedigree,  at  those  sounding  names  may 
warm  himself  into  as  gay  a  vanity  as  those  who 
do  inherit  them.  The  claims  of  birth  are  ideal 
merely,  and  what  herald  shall  go  about  to  strip 
me  of  an  idea  ?  Is  it  trenchant  to  their  swords  ? 
can  it  be  hacked  off  as  a  spur  can  ?  or  torn 
away  like  a  tarnished  garter  ? — \_Blakesmoor  in 
H shire.'\ 

A  Character  Sketch. — Monoculus — for  so, 
in  default  of  catching  his  true  name,  I  choose 
to  designate  the  medical  gentleman  who  now 
appeared— is  a  grave  middle-aged  person,  who, 
without  having  studied  at  the  college,  or  truc- 
kled to  the  pedantry  of  a  diploma,  hath  em- 
ployed a  great  portion  of  his  valuable  time  in 
experimental  processes  upon  the  bodies  of  un- 


mit  anD  misDom  57 

fortunate  fellow-creatures,  in  whom  the  vital 
spark,  to  mere  vulgar  thinking,  would  seem 
extinct,  and  lost  for  ever.  He  omitteth  no  oc- 
casion of  obtruding  his  services,  from  a  case  of 
common-surfeit  suffocation  to  the  ignobler  ob- 
structions, sometimes  induced  by  a  too  wilful 
application  of  the  plant  Cannabis  outwardly. 
But  though  he  declineth  not  altogether  these 
drier  extinctions,  his  occupation  tendeth  for  the 
most  part  to  water-practice  ;  for  the  conveni- 
ence of  which,  he  hath  judiciously  fixed  his 
quarters  near  the  grand  repository  of  the  stream 
mentioned,  where,  day  and  night,  from  his  lit- 
tle watch-tower,  at  the  Middleton's  Head,  he 
listeneth  to  detect  the  wrecks  of  drowned  mor- 
tality— partly,  as  he  saith,  to  be  upon  the  spot 
— and  partly,  because  the  liquids  which  he 
useth  to  prescribe  to  himself  and  his  patients, 
on  these  distressing  occasions,  are  ordinarily 
more  conveniently  to  be  found  at  these  com- 
mon hostelries,  than  in  the  shops  and  phials  of 
the  apothecaries.  His  ear  hath  arrived  to  such 
finesse  by  practice,  that  it  is  reported  he  can 
distinguish  a  plunge  at  a  half  furlong  distance ; 


58  Cbarles  Xamb*s 

and  can  tell  if  it  be  casual  or  deliberate.  He 
weareth  a  medal,  suspended  over  a  suit,  origin- 
ally of  a  sad  brown,  but  which,  by  time,  and 
frequency  of  nightly  divings  has  been  dinged 
into  a  true  professional  sable.  He  passeth  by 
the  name  of  Doctor,  and  is  remarkable  for 
wanting  his  left  eye.  His  remedy — after  a 
sufficient  application  of  warm  blankets,  friction, 
etc.,  is  a  simple  tumbler, or  more,  of  the  purest 
Cognac,  with  water,  made  as  hot  as  the  con- 
valescent can  bear  it.  Where  he  findeth,  as  in 
the  case  of  my  friend,  a  squeamish  subject,  he 
condescendeth  to  be  the  taster,  and  showeth, 
by  his  own  example,  the  innocuous  nature  of 
the  prescription.  Nothing  can  be  more  kind  or 
encouraging  than  this  procedure.  It  addeth 
confidence  to  the  patient,  to  see  his  medical 
adviser  go  hand  in  hand  with  himself  in  the 
remedy.  When  the  doctor  swalloweth  his  own 
draught,  what  peevish  invalid  can  refuse  to 
pledge  him  in  the  potion  ?  In  fine,  Monoculus 
is  a  humane,  sensible  man,  who,  for  a  slender 
pittance,  scarce  enough  to  sustain  life,  is  con- 
tent to  wear  it  out  in  the  endeavor  to  save  the 


mix  anD  Mis^om  59 

lives  of  others — his  pretensions  so  moderate, 
that  with  difficulty  I  could  press  a  crown  upon 
him,  for  the  price  of  restoring  the  existence  of 
such  an  invaluable  creature  to  society  as  G.  D. 
— [Amicus  Redivivus.'\ 

O1.D  ENG1.1SH  Sonnets.  —  The  Sonnets 
which  we  oftenest  call  to  mind  of  Milton 
were  the  compositions  of  his  maturest  years. 
Those  of  Sydney,  which  I  am  about  to  pro- 
duce, were  written  in  the  very  heyday  of 
his  blood.  They  were  struck  full  of  amorous 
fancies — far-fetched  conceits,  befitting  his  occu- 
pation ;  for  True  Love  thinks  no  labor  to  send 
out  Thoughts  upon  the  vast,  and  more  than 
Indian  voyages,  to  bring  home  rich  pearls, 
outlandish  wealth,  gums,  jewels,  spicery,  to 
sacrifice  in  self-depreciating  similitudes,  as 
shadows  of  true  amiabilities  in  the  Beloved. 
We  must  be  lovers — or  at  least  the  cooling 
touch  of  time,  the  circum  prcBcordia  frigus, 
must  not  have  so  damped  our  faculties,  as  to 
take  away  our  recollection  that  we  were  once 
so — before  we  can  duly  appreciate  the  glorious 


6o  Cbarles  Xamb's 

vanities,  and  graceful  hyperboles,  of  the  pas- 
sion. The  images  which  lie  before  our  feet 
(though  by  some  accounted  the  only  natural) 
are  least  natural  for  the  high  Sydnean  love  to 
express  its  fancies  by. — [Some  Sonnets  of  SW 
Philip  Sydney. '\ 

An  AMIABI.E  JUGGi^ER. — He  was  a  juggler, 
who  threw  mist  before  your  eyes — you  had  no 
time  to  detect  his  fallacies.  He  would  say  ' '  hand 
me  the  silver  sugar  tongs"  ;  and  before  you 
could  discover  it  was  a  single  spoon,  and  that 
plated,  he  would  disturb  and  captivate  your 
imagination  by  a  misnomer  of  **the  urn  "  for 
a  tea-kettle,  or  by  calling  a  homely  bench  a 
sofa.  Rich  men  direct  you  to  their  furniture, 
poor  ones  divert  you  from  it ;  he  neither  did 
one  nor  the  other,  but  by  simply  assuming  that 
everything  was  handsome  about  him,  you  were 
positively  at  a  demur  what  you  did,  or  did  not 
see,  at  the  cottage.  With  nothing  to  live  on,  he 
seemed  to  live  on  everything.  He  had  a  stock 
of  wealth  in  his  mind  ;  not  that  which  is  prop- 
erly termed  Content,  for  in  truth  he  was  not  to 


mit  anD  mieDom  6i 

be  contained  at  all,  but  overflowed  all  bounds 
by  the  force  of  a  magnificent  self-delusion. — 
[Captain  Jackson.'] 

Captain  Jackson. — There  is  some  merit  in 
putting  a  handsome  face  upon  indigent  circum- 
stances. To  bully  and  swagger  away  the  sense 
of  them  before  strangers,  may  not  be  always 
discommendable.  Tibbs,  and  Bobadil,  even 
when  detected,  have  more  of  our  admiration 
than  contempt.  But  for  a  man  to  put  the  cheat 
upon  himself — to  play  the  Bobadil  at  home, 
and,  steeped  in  poverty  up  to  the  lips,  to  fancy 
himself  all  the  while  chin-deep  in  riches,  is  a 
strain  of  constitutional  philosophy,  and  a  mas- 
tery over  fortune,  which  was  reserved  for  my 
old  friend  Captain  Jackson. — {Captain  Jackson.] 

PivAYS  AND  PI.AYERS.— I  was  always  fond  of 
the  society  of  players,  and  am  not  sure  that  an 
impediment  in  my  speech  (which  certainly  kept 
me  out  of  the  pulpit)  even  more  than  certain 
personal  disqualifications,  which  are  often  got 
over  in  that  profession,  did  not  prevent  me  at 
one  time  of  life  from  adopting  it.     I  have  had 


62  Cbarlcs  Xamb's 

the  honor  (I  must  ever  call  it)  once  to  have 
been  admitted  to  the  tea-table  of  Miss  Kelly.  I 
have  played  at  serious  whist  with  Mr.  Liston. 
I  have  chatted  with  ever  good-humored  Mrs. 
Charles  Kemble.  I  have  conversed  as  friend 
to  friend  with  her  accomplished  husband.  I 
have  been  indulged  with  a  classical  conference 
with  Macready  ;  and  with  a  sight  of  the  Player- 
picture  gallery,  at  Mr.  Matthews',  when  the 
kind  owner,  to  remunerate  me  for  my  love  of 
the  old  actors  (whom  he  loves  so  much),  went 
over  it  with  me,  supplying  to  his  capital  collec- 
tion, what  alone  the  artist  could  not  give  them 
— voice  ;  and  their  living  motion.  Old  tones, 
half-faded,  of  Dodd  and  Parsons  and  Baddeley, 
have  lived  again  for  me  at  his  bidding.  Only 
Edwin  he  could  not  restore  to  me.  I  have 
supped  with ;  but  I  am  growing  a  cox- 
comb.— {^Barbara  S .] 

TiMB  AND  Eternity.— It  was  like  passing 
out  of  Time  into  Eternity— for  it  is  a  sort  of 
Eternity  for  a  man  to  have  his  Time  all  to 
himself. — \_The  Superannuated  Man.'\ 


Wilt  anD  TimisDom  63 

Age  Not  Reckoned  by  Years.— I  have  in- 
deed lived  nominally  fifty  years,  but  deduct  out 
of  them  the  hours  which  I  have  lived  to  other 
people,  and  not  to  myself,  and  you  will  find 
me  still  a  young  fellow.  For  i/ia^  is  the  only 
true  Time,  which  a  man  can  properly  call  his 
own,  that  which  he  has  all  to  himself;  the  rest, 
though  in  some  sense  he  may  be  said  to  live  it, 
is  other  people's  time,  not  his.  The  remnant 
of  my  poor  days,  long  or  short,  is  at  least  mul- 
tiplied to  me,  threefold.  My  ten  next  years,  if 
I  stretch  so  far,  will  be  as  long  as  any  preceding 
thirty.  'T  is  a  fair  rule-of-three  sum. — [The 
Superannuated  Man."] 

RETIRED  Leisure.— I  am  no  longer    .    .    . 

.  .  .  ,  clerk  to  the  Firm  of  etc.  I  am 
Retired  Leisure.  I  am  to  be  met  with  in  trim 
gardens.  I  am  already  come  to  be  known  by 
my  vacant  face  and  careless  gesture,  perambu- 
lating at  no  fixed  pace,  nor  with  any  settled 
purpose.  I  walk  about — not  to  and  from.  They 
tell  me,  a  certain  cum  dignitate  air,  that  has 
been  buried  so  long  with  my  other  good  parts, 


64  Cbarles  %nmb*6 

has  begun  to  shoot  forth  in  my  person.  I  grow 
into  gentility  perceptibly.  When  I  take  up  a 
newspaper,  it  is  to  read  the  state  of  the  opera. 
Opus  operatum  est.  I  have  done  all  that  I 
came  into  this  world  to  do.  I  have  worked 
task -work,  and  have  the  rest  of  the  day  to  my- 
self— {^The  Superannuated  Man.'\ 

The  Beauty  oe  Hoi^iness. — But  would'st 
thou  know  the  beauty  of  holiness? — go  alone 
on  some  week-day,  borrowing  the  keys  of  good 
Master  Sexton,  traverse  the  cool  aisles  of  some 
country  church  ;  think  of  the  piet}-  that  has 
kneeled  there — the  congregations,  old  and 
young,  that  have  found  consolation  there — the 
meek  pastor — the  docile  parishioner.  With  no 
disturbing  emotions,  no  cross  conflicting  com- 
parisons, drink  in  the  tranquillity  of  the  place, 
till  thou  thyself  become  as  fixed  and  motionless 
as  the  marble  effigies  that  kneel  and  weep 
around  thee. — \_Blakesmoor  in  H shire. '\ 

Chii^dhood. — The  solitude  of  childhood  is 
not  so  much  the  mother  of  thought,  as  it  is  the 


Wft  an&  mtsDom  65 

feeder  of  love,  and  silence,  and  admiration. — 
\_Blakesmoor  in  H shire. '\ 

MoRAi,  Phii<osophy. — Poor  men's  smoky 
cabins  are  not  always  porticoes  of  moral  phi- 
losophy.— \_Barbara  S .] 

The  Sick-Bkd.— If  there  be  a  regal  solitude, 
it  is  a  sick-bed.  How  the  patient  lords  it 
there  !  what  caprices  he  acts  without  control ! 
how  king-like  he  sways  his  pillow — tumbling, 
and  tossing,  and  shifting,  and  lowering,  and 
thumping,  and  flatting,  and  moulding  it,  to 
the  ever-varying  requisitions  of  his  throbbing 
temples. 

He  changes  sides  oftener  than  a  politician. 
Now  he  lies  full  length,  then  half-length, 
obliquely,  transversely,  head  and  feet  quite 
across  the  bed  ;  and  none  accuses  him  of  ter- 
giversation. Within  the  four  curtains  he  is 
absolute.  They  are  his  Mare  Claustmi. — \The 
Convalescent.^ 

Sei^fishness  oe  Invalids. — How  sickness 
enlarges   the   dimensions   of  a   man's   self  to 


66  GbarlC6  !ILamb'0 

himself !  he  is  his  own  exclusive  object. 
Supreme  selfishness  is  inculcated  upon  him  as 
his  only  duty.  'T  is  the  Two  Tables  of  the  Law 
to  him.  He  has  nothing  to  think  of  but  how  to 
get  well.  What  passes  out  of  doors,  or  within 
them,  so  he  hear  not  the  jarring  of  them, 
afifects  him  not. — [The  Convalescent.'\ 

The  Armor  of  Sickness. — He  has  put  on 
the  strong  armor  of  sickness,  he  is  wrapped  in 
the  callous  hide  of  suffering ;  he  keeps  his 
sympathy,  like  some  curious  vintage,  under 
trusty  lock  and  key,  for  his  own  use  only. — 
\The  Convalescent.'\ 

The  Sick  Man, — To  be  sick  is  to  enjoy 
monarchical  prerogatives.  Compare  the  silent 
tread,  and  quiet  ministry,  almost  by  the  eye, 
with  which  he  is  served — with  the  careless  de- 
meanor, the  unceremonious  goings  in  and  out 
(slapping  of  doors,  or  leaving  them  open)  of 
the  very  same  attendants,  when  he  is  getting  a 
little  better — and  you  will  confess,  that  from  the 
bed  of  sickness  (throne  let  me  rather  call  it)  to 
the  elbow-chair  of  convalescence,  is  a  fall  from 


mit  aiiD  mi0Dom  67 

dignity,  amounting  to  a  despotism. — [  The  Con- 
valescent.1 

Sanity  of  True  Genius. — So  far  from  the 
position  holding  true,  that  great  wit  (or  genius', 
in  our  modern  way  of  speaking)  has  a  necessary 
alliance  with  insanity,  the  greatest  wits,  on  the 
contrary,  will  ever  be  found  to  be  the  sanest 
writers.  It  is  impossible  for  the  mind  to  con- 
ceive of  a  mad  Shakespeare.  The  greatness  of 
wit,  by  which  the  poetic  talent  is  here  chiefly 
to  be  understood,  manifests  itself  in  the  admira- 
ble balance  of  all  the  faculties.  Madness  is 
the  disproportionate  straining  or  excess  of  any 
one  of  them. — {^Sanity  of  True  Genius.l 

Writing  Jokes  for  the  Newspapers. — 
Somebody  has  said,  that  to  swallow  six  cross- 
buns  daily  consecutively  for  a  fortnight  would 
surfeit  the  stoutest  digestion.  But  to  have  to 
furnish  as  many  jokes  daily,  and  that  not  for  a 
fortnight,  but  for  a  long  twelvemonth,  as  we 
were  constrained  to  do,  was  a  little  harder  exe- 
cution.    *'  Man  goeth  forth  to  his  work  until 


68  Cbarles  Xamb'5 

the  evening" — from  a  reasonable  hour  in  the 
morning,  we  presume  it  was  meant.  Now  as 
our  main  occupation  took  us  up  from  eight  till 
five  every  day  in  the  city  ;  and  as  our  evening 
hours,  at  that  time  of  life,  had  generally  to  do 
with  anything  rather  than  business,  it  follows 
that  the  only  time  we  could  spare  for  this 
manufactory  of  jokes — our  supplementary  live- 
lihood, that  supplied  us  in  every  want  beyond 
mere  bread  and  cheese — was  exactly  that  part 
of  the  day  which  (as  we  have  heard  of  No 
Man's  Land)  may  be  fitly  denominated  No 
Man's  Time  ;  that  is,  no  time  in  which  a  man 
ought  to  be  up  and  awake  in.  To  speak  more 
plainly,  it  is  that  time  of  an  hour,  or  an  hour 
and  a  half's  duration,  in  which  a  man  whose 
occasions  call  him  up  so  preposterously  has  to 
wait  for  his  breakfast. — \_Newspapeys  Thirty- 
Five  Years  Ago.'\ 

The   Actor   Bi<IvISTon.— Oh,  it  was  a  rich 

scene, — but  Sir  A C ,  the  best  of  story. 

tellers  and  surgeons,  who  mends  a  lame  narra- 
tive almost  as  well  as  he  sets  a  fracture,  alone 


limit  anO  misDom  69 

could  do  justice  to  it — ^that  I  was  witness  to,  iu 
the  tarnished  room  (that  had  once  been  green) 
of  that  same  little  Olympic.  There,  after  his 
deposition  from  Imperial  Drury,  he  substituted 
a  throne.  That  Olympic  Hill  was  his  "highest 
heaven  "  ;  himself  "Jove  in  his  chair."  There 
he  sat  in  state,  while  before  him,  on  complaint 
of  prompter,  was  brought  for  judgment — how 
shall  I  describe  her  ? — one  of  those  little  tawdry 
things  that  flirt  at  the  tails  of  choruses— a  pro- 
bationer for  the  town,  in  either  of  its  senses — 
the  prettiest  little  drab — a  dirty  fringe  and  ap- 
pendage of  the  lamps'  smoke — who,  it  seems, 
on  some  disapprobation  expressed  by  a  "  highly 
respectable"  audience,  had  precipitately  quitted 
her  station  on  the  boards,  and  withdrawn  her 
small  talents  in  disgust. 

"And  how  dare  you,"  said  her  Manager — 
assuming  a  sensorial  severity  which  would  have 
crushed  the  confidence  of  a  Vestris,  and  dis- 
armed that  beautiful  rebel  herself  of  her  pro- 
fessional caprices— I  verily  believe,  he  thought 
her  standing  before  him — "how  dare  you, 
madam,   withdraw  yourself,  without  a  notice, 


70  CbarlC6  Xamb'6 

from  your  theatrical  duties  ?  "  "I  was  hissed, 
sir."  "And  you  have  the  presumption  to  de- 
cide upon  the  taste  of  the  town  ?  "  ''I  don't 
know  that,  sir,  but  I  will  never  stand  to  be 
hissed,"  was  the  subjoinder  of  3'oung  Confid- 
ence— when  gathering  up  his  features  into  one 
insignificant  mass  of  wonder,  pity,  and  expos- 
tulatory  indignation — in  a  lesson  never  to  have 
been  lost  upon  a  creature  less  forward  than  she 
who  stood  before  him — his  words  were  these  : 
"They  have  hissed  nie.'' — \^Ellistoniana.'\ 

A  Newspaper  Man. — F.,  without  a  guinea 
in  his  pocket,  and  having  left  not  many  iu  the 
pockets  of  his  friends,  whom  he  might  com- 
mand, had  purchased  (on  tick  doubtless)  the 
whole  and  sole  editorship,  proprietorship, 
with  all  the  rights  and  titles  (such  as  they  were 
worth)  of  The  Albion,  from  one  Lovell  ;  of 
whom  we  know  nothing,  save  that  he  had  stood 
in  the  pillor}-  for  a  libel  on  the  Prince  of 
Wales.  With  this  hopeless  concern — for  it  had 
been  sinking  ever  since  its  commencement, 
and  could  now  reckon  upon  not  more  than  a 


mit  anD  TimisDom  71 

hundred  subscribers — F.  resolutely  determined 
upon  pulling  down  the  government  in  the  first 
instance,  and  making  both  our  fortunes  by  way 
of  corollary.  For  seven  weeks  and  more  did 
this  infatuated  Democrat  go  about  borrowing 
seven-shilling  pieces,  and  lesser  coin,  to  meet 
the  daily  demands  of  the  Stamp-Office,  which 
allowed  no  credit  to  publications  of  that  side  in 
politics.  An  outcast  from  politer  bread,  we 
attached  our  small  talents  to  the  forlorn  for- 
tunes of  our  friend.  Our  occupation  now  was 
to  write  treason.  — [Newspapers  Thirty-Five 
Years  Ago.'] 

REMINISCENCES    OF     SCHOOI..— Oh,     how    I 

remember  our  legs  wedged  into  those  uncom- 
fortable sloping  desks,  where  we  sat  elbowing 
each  other ;  and  the  injunctions  to  attain  a  free 
hand,  unattainable  in  that  position  ;  the  first 
copy  I  wrote  after,  with  its  moral  lesson,  '*  Art 
improves  Nature  "  ;  the  still  earlier  pot-hooks 
and  the  hangers,  some  traces  of  which  I  fear 
may  yet  be  apparent  in  this  manuscript ;  the 
truant  looks  side-long  to  the  garden,   which 


72  Cbacles  Xamb^s 

seemed  a  mockery  of  our  imprisonment ;  the 
prize  for  best  spelling  which  had  almost  tm-ned 
my  head,  and  which,  to  this  day,  I  cannot  re- 
flect upon  without  a  vanity,  which  I  ought  to 
be  ashamed  of ;  our  little  leaden  inkstands,  not 
separately  subsisting,  but  sunk  into  the  desks  ; 
the  bright,  punctually-washed  morning  fingers, 
darkening  gradually  with  another  and  another 
ink-spot !  What  a  world  of  little  associated 
circumstances,  pains,  and  pleasures,  mingling 
their  quotas  of  pleasure,  arise  at  the  reading  of 
those  few  simple  words, — **Mr.  William  Bird, 
an  eminent  writer,  and  teacher  of  languages 
and  mathematics  in  Fetter  Lane,  Holborn  ! " 
— \_Captai7i  Starkey.'\ 

An  Artist. — My  acquaintance  with  D.  was 
in  the  outset  of  his  art,  w^hen  the  graving  tools, 
rather  than  the  pencil,  administered  to  his 
humble  wants.  Those  implements,  as  is  well 
known,  are  not  the  most  favorable  to  the  cul- 
tivation of  that  virtue,  which  is  esteemed  next 
to  Godliness.  He  might  "wash  his  hands  in 
innocency,"  and  so  metaphorically  "approach 


Wiit  anO  miBDom  73 

an  altar  "  ;  but  bis  material  puds  were  any- 
thing but  fit  to  be  carried  to  church.  By  an 
ingrained  economy  in  soap — if  it  was  not  for 
pictorial  effect  rather — he  would  wash  (on  Sun- 
days) the  inner  oval,  or  portrait,  as  it  may  be 
termed,  of  his  countenance,  leaving  the  un- 
washed temples  to  form  a  natural  black  frame 
round  the  picture,  in  which  a  dead  white  was 
the  predominant  color.  This,  with  the  addi- 
tion of  green  spectacles  made  necessary  by  the 
impairment,  which  his  graving  labors  by  day 
and  night  (for  he  was  ordinarily  at  them  for  six- 
teen hours  out  of  the  twenty-four)  had  brought 
upon  his  visual  faculties,  gave  him  a  singular 
appearance,  when  he  took  the  air  abroad ;  in- 
somuch, that  I  have  seen  a  crowd  of  young 
men  and  boys  following  him  along  Oxford 
Street  with  admiration  not  without  shouts ; 
even  as  the  youth  of  Rome,  we  read  in  Vasari, 
followed  the  steps  of  Raphael  with  acclamations 
for  his  genius,  and  for  his  beauty,  when  he  pro- 
ceeded from  his  workshop  to  chat  with  car- 
dinals and  popes  at  the  Vatican. — ^^Recollections 
of  a  Royal  Academician^^ 


74  Cbarles  Xamb's 

A  Precious  Volume. — Rummaging  over  the 
contents  of  an  old  stall  at  a  half  book,  half  old- 
iron  shop,  in  an  alley  leading  from  Wardour 
Street  to  Soho  Square,  yesterday,  I  lit  upon  a 
ragged  duodecimo  which  had  been  the  strange 
delight  of  my  infancy,  and  which  I  had  lost 
sight  of  for  more  than  forty  years, — the  Qiieen- 
like  Closet,  or  Rich  Cabinet,  written  by  Hannah 
Woolly,  and  printed  for  R.  C.  and  T.  S.,  1681  ; 
being  an  abstract  of  receipts  in  cookery,  con- 
fectionery, cosmetics,  needlework,  morality,  and 
all  such  branches  of  what  were  then  consid- 
ered as  female  accomplishments.  The  price  de- 
manded was  sixpence,  which  the  owner  (a  little 
squab  duodecimo  character  himself)  enforced 
with  the  assurance  that  his  "  own  mother  should 
not  have  it  for  a  farthing  less. ' '  On  my  demurring 
at  this  extraordinary  assertion,  the  dirty  little 
vendor  reinforced  his  assertion  with  a  sort  of 
oath,  which  seemed  more  than  the  occasion 
demanded:  ''And  now,"  said  he,  "I  have  put 
my  soul  to  it."  Pressed  by  so  solemn  an  assev- 
eration, I  could  no  longer  resist  a  demand  which 
seemed  to  set  me,  however  unworthy,  upon  a 


mtt  anD  MlsDom  75 

level  with  its  dearest  relations  ;  and  depositing 
a  tester,  I  bore  away  the  tattered  prize  in  tri- 
umph.—[7y^^  Months. '\ 

The  Schooi^master. — I  well  remember  Bird. 
He  was  a  squat,  corpulent,  middle-sized  man, 
with  something  of  the  gentleman  about  him, 
and  that  peculiar  mild  tone — especially  while 
he  was  inflicting  punishment — which  is  so  much 
more  terrible  to  children  than  the  angriest  looks 
and  gestures.  Whippings  were  not  frequent  ; 
but,  when  they  took  place,  the  correction  was 
performed  in  a  private  room  adjoining,  where 
we  could  only  hear  the  plaints,  but  saw  noth- 
ing. This  heightened  the  decorum  and  the 
solemnity.  But  the  ordinary  chastisement  was 
the  bastinado,  a  stroke  or  two  on  the  palm  with 
that  almost  obsolete  weapon  now — the  ferule. 
A  ferule  was  a  sort  of  flat  ruler,  widened,  at  the 
inflicting  end,  into  a  shape  resembling  a  pear, 
— but  nothing  like  so  sweet,  with  a  delectable 
hole  in  the  middle  to  raise  blisters,  like  a  cup- 
ping-glass. I  have  an  intense  recollection  of 
that   disused   instrument    of  torture,    and    the 


76  Cbarle0  Xamb'6 


malignancy,  in  proportion  to  the  apparent 
mildness,  with  which  its  strokes  were  applied. 
The  idea  of  a  rod  is  accompanied  with  some- 
thing ludicrous,  but  by  no  process  can  I  look 
back  upon  this  blister-raiser  with  anjrthing  but 
unmingled  horror.  To  make  him  look  more 
formidable — if  a  pedagogue  had  need  of  these 
heightenings, — Bird  wore  one  of  those  flowered 
Indian  gowns  formerly  in  use  with  school- 
masters, the  strange  figures  upon  which  we 
used  to  interpret  into  hieroglyphics  of  pain 
and  suffering.  But,  boyish  fears  apart,  Bird,  I 
believe,  was,  in  the  main,  a  humane  and  judi- 
cious master. — {^Captain  Starkey.'] 

Protestants  and  Christians. — All  Prot- 
estants are  Christians  ;  but  I  am  a  Protestant ; 
ei'go,  etc.  :  as  if  a  marmoset,  contending  to  be 
a  man,  overleaping  that  term  as  too  generic 
and  vulgar,  should  at  once  roundly  proclaim 
himself  to  be  a  gentleman.  The  argument 
would  be,  as  we  say,  exabundanti.  From 
whichever  course  this  excessus  in  terniinis  pro- 
ceeded, we  can  do  no  less  than  congratulate  the 


Wiit  an&  imts^om  77 


general  state  of  Christendom  upon  the  acces- 
sion of  so  extraordinary  a  convert.  Who  was 
the  happy  instrument  of  the  conversion  we  are 
yet  to  learn  :  it  comes  nearest  to  the  attempt 
of  the  late  pious  Dr.  Watts  to  Christianize  the 
Psalms  of  the  Old  Testament.  Something  of 
the  old  Hebrew  raciness  is  lost  in  the  transfu- 
sion ;  but  much  of  its  asperity  is  softened  and 
pared  down  in  the  adaptation. — ^Tke  Religion 
of  A  dors,  "l 

Varied  Rewgions. — Mr.  Sinclair  has  joined 
the  Shakers.  Mr.  Grimaldi,  Sr,,  after  being 
long  a  Jumper,  has  lately  fallen  into  some 
whimsical  theories  respecting  the  fall  of  man  ; 
which  he  understands,  not  of  an  allegori- 
cal, but  a  real  tumble^  by  which  the  whole 
body  of  humanity  became,  as  it  were,  lame  to 
the  performance  of  good  works.  Pride  he  will 
have  to  be  nothing  but  a  stiff  neck  ;  irresolu- 
tion, the  nerves  shaken  ;  an  inclination  to 
sinister  paths,  crookedness  of  the  joints  ;  spirit- 
ual deadness,  a  paralysis  ;  want  of  charity,  a 
contraction  in  the  fingers  ;  despising  of  govern- 


78  Cbarle6  Xamb's 

ment,  a  broken  head  ;  the  plaster,  a  sermon  ; 
the  lint  to  bind  it  up,  the  text ;  the  probers,  the 
preachers  ;  a  pair  of  crutches,  the  old  and  new 
law  ;  a  bandage,  religious  obligation  :  a  fanciful 
mode  of  illustration,  derived  from  the  accidents 
and  habits  of  his  past  calling  spiritualized^ 
rather  than  from  any  accurate  acquaintance 
with  the  Hebrew  text,  in  which  report  speaks 
him  but  a  raw  scholar.  Mr.  Elliston,  from  all 
we  can  learn,  has  his  religion  yet  to  choose  ; 
though  some  thinkhim  aMuggletonian, — \The 
Religion  of  A  dors. 1 

A  PI.AY  EntireivY  for  Women  Charac- 
ters.— The  effect  was  enchanting.  We  mean 
for  once.  We  do  not  w^ant  to  encourage  these 
Amazonian  vanities.  Once  or  twice  we  longed 
to  have  Wrench  bustling  among  them.  A  lady 
who  sat  near  us  was  observed  to  gape  for  want 
of  variet3^  To  us  it  was  delicate  quintessence, 
an  apple-pie  made  all  of  quinces.  We  remem- 
ber poor  Holcroft's  last  comedy,  which  posi- 
tively died  from  the  opposite  excess  ;  it  was 
choked  up  with  men,  and  perished  from  a  re- 


ma  an&  'QCliaDom  79 


dundancy  of  male  population.  It  had  nine  prin- 
cipal men  characters  in  it,  and  but  one  woman, 
and  she  of  no  very  ambiguous  character.  Mrs. 
Harlow,  to  do  the  part  justice,  chose  to  play  it 
in  scarlet. — [JVew  Pieces  at  the  Lyceum.'] 

The  Lottery. — The  true  mental  epicure  al- 
ways purchased  his  ticket  early,  and  postponed 
inquiry  into  its  fate  to  the  last  possible  moment, 
during  the  whole  of  which  intervening  period  he 
had  an  imaginary  twenty  thousand  locked  up  in 
his  desk  :  and  was  not  this  well  worth  all  the 
money?  Who  would  scruple  to  give  twenty 
pounds'  interest  for  even  the  ideal  enjoyment 
of  as  many  thousands  during  two  or  three 
months  ?  Crede  quod  habes,  et  habes  ;  and  the 
usufruct  of  such  a  capital  is  surely  not  dear  at 
such  a  price.  Some  years  ago,  a  gentleman  in 
passing  along  Cheapside  saw  the  figures  1069, 
of  which  number  he  was  the  sole  proprietor, 
flaming  on  the  window  of  a  lottery-office  as  a 
capital  prize.  Somewhat  flurried  by  this  dis- 
covery, not  less  welcome  than  unexpected,  he 
resolved  to  walk  round  St.  Paul's  that  he  might 


8o  Cbarlcs  Xamb's 

consider  in  what  way  to  communicate  the 
happy  tidings  to  his  wife  and  family  ;  but,  upon 
re-passing  the  shop  he  observed  that  the  num- 
ber was  altered  to  10,069,  and,  upon  inquiry, 
had  the  mortification  to  learn  that  his  ticket 
was  a  blank,  and  had  only  been  stuck  up  in  the 
window  by  a  mistake  of  the  clerk.  This  effec- 
tually calmed  his  agitation  ;  but  he  always 
speaks  of  himself  as  having  once  possessed 
twenty  thousand  pounds,  and  maintains  that 
his  ten-minutes'  walk  round  St.  Paul's  was 
worth  ten  times  the  purchase-money  of  the 
ticket.  A  prize  thus  obtained  has,  moreover, 
this  special  advantage, — it  is  beyond  the  reach 
of  fate  ;  it  cannot  be  squandered  ;  bankruptcy 
cannot  lay  siege  to  it  ;  friends  cannot  pull  it 
down,  nor  enemies  blow  it  up  ;  it  bears  a 
charmed  life,  and  none  of  women  born  can 
break  its  integrity,  even  by  the  dissipation  of 
a  single  fraction.  Show  me  the  property  in 
these  perilous  times  that  is  equally  compact  and 
impregnable.  We  can  no  longer  become  en- 
riched for  a  quarter  of  an  hour ;  we  can  no 
longer  succeed  in  such  splendid  failures  ;   all 


TKait  anO  MfsDom  8i 

our  chances  of  making  such  a  miss  have  van- 
ished with  the  last  of  the  lotteries. — \_The  Il- 
lustrious Defunct.'^ 

On  Hissing.— Seriously,  Messieurs  the  Pub- 
lic, this  outrageous  way  which  you  have  got  of 
expressing  your  displeasures  is  too  much  for 
the  occasion.  When  I  was  deafening  under  the 
effects  of  it,  I  could  not  help  asking  what  crime 
of  great  moral  turpitude  I  had  committed  :  for 
every  man  about  me  seemed  to  feel  the  offence 
as  personal  to  himself  :  as  something  which 
public  interest  and  private  feelings  alike  called 
upon  him  in  the  strongest  possible  manner,  to 
stigmatize  with  infamy. 

The  Romans,  it  is  well  known  to  you,  Mr. 
Reflector,  took  a  gentler  method  of  marking 
their  disapprobation  of  an  author's  work.  They 
were  a  humane  and  equitable  nation.  They  left 
the  furca  and  the  patibtdum,  the  axe  and  the 
rods,  to  great  offenders  :  for  these  minor  and 
(if  I  may  so  term  them)  extra-moral  offences, 
the  bent  thumb  was  considered  as  a  sufiScient 
sign  of  disapprobation, — vertere  pollicem  ;  as 

6 


82  Cbarlea  Xamb's 

the  pressed  thumb,  premere  pollicem,   was  a 
mark  of  approving. 

I  proceed  with  more  pleasure  to  give  you  an 
account  of  a  club  to  which  I  have  the  honor  to 
belong.  There  are  fourteen  of  us,  who  are  all 
authors  that  have  been  once  in  our  lives  what 
is  called  datnned.  We  meet  on  the  anniversary 
of  our  respective  nights,  and  nlake  ourselves 
merry  at  the  expense  of  the  public.  The  chief 
tenets  which  distinguish  our  society,  and  which 
every  man  among  us  is  bound  to  hold  for  gospel, 
are — That  the  public,  or  mob,  in  all  ages  have 
been  a  set  of  blind,  deaf,  obstinate,  senseless, 
illiterate  savages.  That  no  man  of  genius,  in 
his  senses,  would  be  ambitious  of  pleasing  such 
a  capricious,  ungrateful  rabble.  That  the  only 
legitimate  end  of  writing  for  them  is  to  pick 
their  pockets  ;  and,  that  failing,  we  are  at  full 
liberty  to  vilify  and  abuse  them  as  much  as 
ever  we  think  fit. — \_0n  the  Custom  of  Hissing 
at  the  TheatresJ\ 

The;  ModeI/  Ci.ERK. — He  avoideth  profane 
oaths  and  jesting,  as  so  much  time  lost  from  his 


mit  mt>  MfsDom  S3 


employ  ;  what  spare  time  he  hath  for  conversa- 
tion, which,  in  a  counting-house  such  as  we 
have  been  supposing,  can  be  but  small,  he 
spendeth  in  putting  seasonable  questions  to 
such  of  his  fellows  (and  sometimes  respectfully 
to  the  master  himself)  who  can  give  him  infor- 
mation respecting  the  price  and  quality  of 
goods,  the  state  of  exchange,  or  the  latest  im- 
provements in  book-keeping  ;  thus  making  the 
motion  of  his  lips,  as  well  as  of  his  fingers, 
subservient  to  his  master's  interest.  Not  that 
he  refuseth  a  brisk  saying,  or  a  cheerful  sally 
of  wit,  when  it  comes  unforced,  is  free  of  of- 
fence, and  hath  a  convenient  brevity.  For  this 
reason,  he  hath  commonly  some  such  phrase  as 
this  in  his  mouth  : 

It 's  a  slovenly  look 
To  blot  your  book. 

—{^The  Good  Clerk. '\ 

Criticisms  on  Art.— Leonardo,  from  the  one 
or  two  specimens  we  have  of  him  in  England, 
must  have  been  a  stupendous  genius.  I  can 
scarce  think  he  has  had  his  full  fame — he  who 


84  Cbarles  Xamb*6 

could  paint  that  wonderful  personification  of 
the  Logos,  or  second  person  of  the  Trinity, 
grasping  a  globe,  late  in  the  possession  of  Mr. 
Troward  of  Pall  Mall,  where  the  hand  was,  by 
the  boldest  licence,  twice  as  big  as  the  truth  of 
drawing  warranted  ;  yet  the  effect,  to  every  one 
that  saw  it,  by  some  magic  of  genius  was  con- 
fessed to  be  not  monstrous,  but  miraculous  and 
silencing.  It  could  not  be  gainsaid. — YThe 
Reynolds  Gallery.l 

An  Amusing  Mistake. — How  oddly  it  hap- 
pens that  the  same  sound  shall  suggest  to  the 
minds  of  two  persons  hearing  it  ideas  the  most 
opposite !  I  was  conversing,  a  few  years  since, 
with  a  young  friend  upon  the  subject  of  poetry, 
and  particularly  that  species  of  it  which  is 
known  by  the  name  of  the  Epithalamium.  I 
ventured  to  assert  that  the  most  perfect  speci- 
men of  it  in  our  language  was  the  Epithalamium 
of  Spenser  upon  his  own  marriage. 

My  young  gentleman,  who  has  a  smattering 
of  taste,  and  would  not  willingly  be  thought 
ignorant  of  anything  remotely  connected  with 


mix  anD  MfsOom  '  85 

the  belles-lettres,  expressed  a  degree  of  surprise, 
mixed  with  mortification,  that  he  should  never 
have  heard  of  this  poem  ;  Spenser  being  an 
author  with  whose  writings  he  thought  himself 
peculiarly  conversant. 

I  offered  to  show  him  the  poem  in  the  fine 
folio  copy  of  the  poet's  works  which  I  have  at 
home.  He  seemed  pleased  with  the  offer, 
though  the  mention  of  the  folio  seemed  again 
to  puzzle  him.  But,  presently  after,  assuming 
a  grave  look,  he  compassionately  muttered  to 
himself,  "  Poor  Spencer  !  " 

There  was  something  in  the  tone  with  which 
he  spoke  these  words  that  struck  me  not  a 
little.  It  was  more  like  the  accent  with  which 
a  man  bemoans  some  recent  calamity  that  has 
happened  to  a  friend  than  that  tone  of  sober 
grief  with  which  we  lament  the  sorrows  of  a 
person,  however  excellent  and  however  griev- 
ous his  afflictions  may  have  been,  who  has  been 
dead  more  than  two  centuries.  I  had  the  curi- 
osity to  inquire  into  the  reasons  of  so  uncom- 
mon an  ejaculation.  My  young  gentleman, 
with  a  more  solemn  tone  of  pathos  than  before, 


86  Cbarles  Xamb'a 

repeated,  "Poor  Spencer!"  and  added,   "He 
has  lost  his  wife  !  " 

My  astonishment  at  this  assertion  rose  to 
such  a  height,  that  I  began  to  think  the  brain 
of  my  young  friend  must  be  cracked,  or  some 
unaccountable  reverie  had  gotten  possession  of 
it.  But,  upon  further  explanation,  it  appeared 
that  the  word  "Spenser  " — which  to  you  or  me, 
reader,  in  a  conversation  upon  poetry  too, 
would  naturally  have  called  up  the  idea  of  an 
old  poet  in  a  ruff,  one  Edmund  Spenser,  that 
flourished  in  the  days  of  Queen  Elizabeth,  and 
wrote  a  poem  called  The  Faery  Queene,  with 
The  Shepherd's  Calendar,  and  many  more 
verses  besides — did,  in  the  mind  of  my  young 
friend,  excite  a  very  different  and  quite  modern 
idea — namely,  that  of  the  Honorable  William 
Spencer,  one  of  the  living  ornaments,  if  I  am 
not  misinformed,  of  this  present  poetical  era, 
A.D.  1811. — \pn  the  Ambiguities  Arising  from 
Proper  Names."] 

Wordsworth's  Poetry.— The  causes  which 
have  prevented  the  poetry  of  Mr.  Wordsworth 


mat  anO  misDom  87 

from  attaining  its  full  share  of  popularity  are  to 
be  found  in  the  boldness  and  originality  of  his 
genius.  The  times  are  past  when  a  poet  could 
securely  follow  the  direction  of  his  own  mind 
into  whatever  tracts  it  might  lead.  A  writer, 
who  would  be  popular,  must  timidly  coast  the 
shore  of  prescribed  sentiment  and  sympathy. 
He  must  have  just  as  much  more  of  the 
imaginative  faculty  than  his  readers  as  will 
serve  to  keep  their  apprehensions  from  stag- 
nating, but  not  so  much  as  to  alarm  their 
jealousy.  He  must  not  think  or  feel  too 
deeply. 

If  he  has  had  the  fortune  to  be  bred  in  the 
midst  of  the  most  magnificent  objects  of  crea- 
tion, he  must  not  have  given  away  his  heart  to 
them  ;  or  if  he  have,  he  must  conceal  his  love, 
or  not  carry  his  expressions  of  it  beyond  that 
point  of  rapture  which  the  occasional  tourist 
thinks  it  not  overstepping  decorum  to  betray, 
or  the  limit  which  that  gentlemanly  spy  upon 
Nature,  the  picturesque  traveller,  has  vouch- 
safed to  countenance.  He  must  do  this,  or  be 
content  to  be  thought  an  enthusiast. 


Cbarles  Xamb's 


If  from  living  among  simple  mountaineers, 
from  a  daily  intercourse  with  them,  not  upon 
the  footing  of  a  patron,  but  in  the  character  of 
an  equal,  he  has  detected,  or  imagines  that  he 
has  detected,  through  the  cloudy  medium  of 
their  unlettered  discourse,  thoughts  and  appre- 
hensions not  vulgar  ;  traits  of  patience  and 
constancy,  love  unwearied,  and  heroic  endur- 
ance, not  unfit  (as  he  may  judge)  to  be  made 
the  subject  of  verse,  he  will  be  deemed  a  man 
of  perverted  genius  by  the  philanthropist  who, 
conceiving  of  the  peasantry  of  his  country  only 
as  objects  of  a  pecuniary  sympathy,  starts  at 
finding  them  elevated  to  a  level  of  humanity 
with  himself,  having  their  own  loves,  enmities, 
cravings,  aspirations,  etc.,  as  much  beyond  his 
faculty  to  believe,  as  his  beneficence  to  supply. 

If  from  a  familiar  observation  of  the  ways  of 
children,  and  much  more  from  a  retrospect  of 
his  own  mind  when  a  child,  he  has  gathered 
more  reverential  notions  of  that  state  than  fall 
to  the  lot  of  ordinary  observers,  and,  escaping 
from  the  dissonant  wranglings  of  men,  has 
tuned    his    lyre,    though    but    for    occasional 


Mlt  anD  MisDom  89 


harmonies,  to  the  milder  utterance  of  that  soft 
age, — his  verses  shall  be  censured  as  infantile 
by  critics  who  confound  poetry  "having  chil- 
dren for  its  subject  "  with  poetry  that  is  "  child- 
ish," and  who,  having  themselves  perhaps 
never  been  children,  never  ha\ang  possessed 
the  tenderness  and  docility  of  that  age,  know 
not  what  the  soul  of  a  child  is — how  appre- 
hensive !  how  imaginative !  how  religious  ! — 
[  Wordsworth's  ExcursionJl 

If  Guy  Faux  had  been  Successfui,.— To 
assist  our  imagination,  let  us  take  leave  to  sup- 
pose (and  we  do  it  in  the  harmless  wantonness 
of  fancy)  that  the  tremendous  explosion  had 
taken  place  in  our  days.  We  better  know  what 
a  House  of  Commons  is  in  our  days,  and  can 
better  estimate  our  loss.  Let  us  imagine,  then, 
to  ourselves,  the  united  members  sitting  in  full 
conclave  above  ;  Faux  just  ready  with  his  train 
and  matches  below, — in  his  hand  a  "reed  tipt 
with  fire."     He  applies  the  fatal  engine . 

To  assist  our  notions  still  further,  let  us  sup- 
pose some  lucky  dog  of  a  reporter,   who  had 


go  Cbarles  Xamb'0 

escaped  by  miracle  upon  some  plank  of  St. 
Stephen's  benches,  and  came  plump  upon  the 
roof  of  the  adjacent  Abbey,  from  whence  de- 
scending, at  some  neighboring  coffee-house, 
first  wiping  his  clothes  and  calling  for  a  glass 
of  lemonade,  he  sits  down  and  reports  what  he 
had  heard  and  seen  {quorum  pars  ntag7iafuit)y 
for  the  Morning  Post  or  the  Courier.  We 
can  scarcely  imagine  him  describing  the  event 
in  any  other  words  but  some  such  as  these  : — 

"A  Motion  was  put  and  carried,  that  this 
House  do  adjourn  ;  that  the  Speaker  do  quit 
the  chair.  The  House  rose;  amid  clamors  for 
Order." 

In  some  such  way  the  event  might  most 
technically  have  been  conveyed  to  the  public. 
But  a  poetical  mind,  not  content  with  this  dry 
method  of  narration,  cannot  help  pursuing  the 
effects  of  this  tremendous  blowing  up,  this 
adjournment  in  the  air  sitie  die.  It  sees  the 
benches  mount, — the  Chair  first,  and  then  the 
benches  ;  and  first  the  Treasury  Bench,  hurried 
up  in  this  nitrous  explosion, — the  INIembers,  as 
it  were,  pairing  off;  Whigs  and  Tories  taking 


mit  anO  limisDom  91 


their  friendly  apotheosis  together  (as  they  did 
their  sandwiches  below  in  Bellamy's  room). 
Fancy,  in  her  flight,  keeps  pace  with  the  aspir- 
ing legislators  :  she  sees  the  awful  seat  of  order 
mounting,  till  it  becomes  finally  fixed,  a  con- 
stellation, next  to  Cassiopeia's  chair, — the  wig 
of  him  that  sat  in  it  taking  its  place  near 
Berenice's  curls.  St.  Peter,  at  heaven's  wicket, 
— No,  not  St.  Peter, — St.  Stephen,  with  open 
arms,  receives  his  own. — [Guy  Faux."] 

Th^  First  Pun  in  Otaheite;.— We  know  a 
merry  captain,  and  co-navigator  with  Cook,  who 
prides  himself  upon  having  planted  the  first  pun 
in  Otaheite.  It  was  in  their  own  language,  and 
the  islanders  first  looked  at  him,  then  stared  at 
one  another,  and  all  at  once  burst  out  into  a 
genial  laugh.  It  was  a  stranger,  and  as  a 
stranger  they  gave  it  welcome.  Many  a  quib- 
ble of  their  own  growth,  we  doubt  not,  has  since 
sprung  from  that  well-timed  exotic.  Where 
puns  flourish,  there  must  be  no  inconsiderable 
advance  in  civilization. — [First  Fruits  of  Aus- 
tralian Poetry. '\ 


92  Cbarles  Xamb's 

A  Woman's  Voice. — Her  voice  is  wonderfully 
fine  ;  but  till  I  got  used  to  it,  I  confess  it  stag- 
gered me.  It  is,  for  all  the  world,  like  that  of  a 
piping  bullfinch ;  while,  from  her  size  and  stat- 
ure, you  would  expect  notes  to  drown  the 
deep  organ.  The  shake,  which  most  fine  sing- 
ers reserve  for  the  close  or  cadence,  by  some 
unaccountable  flexibility,  or  tremulousness  of 
pipe,  she  carrieth  quite  through  the  composi- 
tion ;  so  that  her  time,  to  a  common  air  or 
ballad,  keeps  double  motion,  like  the  earth, — 
running  the  primary  circuit  of  the  tune,  and 
still  revolving  upon  its  own  axis.  The  effect, 
as  I  said  before,  when  you  are  used  to  it,  is 
as  agreeable  as  it  is  altogether  new  and  surpris- 
ing. The  spacious  apartment  of  her  outward 
frame  lodgeth  a  soul  in  all  respects  dispropor- 
tionate. Of  more  than  mortal  make,  she 
evinceth  w'ithal  a  trembling  sensibility,  a  yield- 
ing infirmity  of  purpose,  a  quick  susceptibility  to 
reproach,  and  all  the  train  of  diffident  and  blush- 
ing virtues,  which  for  their  habitation  usually 
seek  out  a  feeble  frame,  an  attenuated  and 
meagre  constitution. — [  The  Gentle  Giantess.'\ 


Wiit  anD  XlClis^om  93 


The  GentIvE  Giantess.— With  more  than 
man's  bulk,  her  humors  and  occupations  are 
eminently  feminine.  She  sighs, — being  six  feet 
high.  She  languisheth, — being  two  feet  wide. 
She  worketh  slender  sprigs  upon  the  delicate 
muslin, — her  fingers  being  capable  of  moulding 
a  colossus.  She  sippeth  her  wine  out  of  her 
glass  daintily — her  capacity  being  that  of  a  tun 
of  Heidelberg.  She  goeth  mincingly  with  those 
feet  of  hers,  whose  solidity  need  not  fear  the 
black  ox's  pressure.  Softest  and  largest  of  thy 
sex,  adieu  !  By  what  parting  attribute  may  I 
salute  thee,  last  and  best  of  the  Titanesses, — 
Ogress,  fed  with  milk  instead  of  blood  ;  not 
least,  or  least  handsome,  among  Oxford's  state- 
ly structures,  —  Oxford,  who,  in  its  deadest 
time  of  vacation,  can  never  properly  be  said 
to  be  empty,  having  thee  to  fill  it. — [  T/ie  Gentle 
Giantess.'] 

A  Story  of  Chii^dhood.— When  a  child,  I 
was  once  let  loose,  by  favor  of  a  nobleman's 
gardener,  into  his  lordship's  magnificent  fruit- 
garden,  with  full  leave  to  pull  the  currants  and 


94  Cbarlcs  Uamb's 

the  gooseberries  ;  only  I  was  interdicted  from 
touching  the  wall-fruit.  Indeed,  at  that  season 
(it  was  the  end  of  autumn),  there  was  little  left. 
Only  on  the  south  wall  (can  I  forget  the  hot 
feel  of  the  brickwork  ?)  lingered  the  one  last 
peach.  Now,  peaches  are  a  fruit  which  I  always 
had,  and  still  have,  an  almost  utter  aversion  to. 
There  is  something  to  my  palate  singularly  harsh 
and  repulsive  in  the  flavor  of  them.  I  know 
not  by  what  demon  of  contradiction  inspired, 
but  I  was  haunted  by  an  irresistible  desire  to 
pluck  it.  Tear  myself  as  often  as  I  would  from 
the  spot,  I  found  myself  still  recurring  to  it ; 
till  maddening  with  desire  (desire  I  cannot  call 
it)  with  wilfulness  rather, — without  appetite, — 
against  appetite,  I  may  call  it, — in  an  evil  hour, 
I  reached  out  my  hand  and  plucked  it.  Some 
few  raindrops  just  then  fell  ;  the  sky  (from  a 
bright  day)  became  overcast ;  and  I  was  a  type 
of  our  first  parents,  after  the  eating  of  that  fatal 
fruit.  I  felt  myself  naked  and  ashamed,  stripped 
of  my  virtue,  spiritless.  The  downy  fruit,  whose 
sight  rather  than  savor  had  tempted  me,  dropped 
from  my  hand  never   to  be  tasted.     All  the 


ma  anO  limisDom  95 

commentators  in  the  world  cannot  persuade  me 
but  that  the  Hebrew  word,  in  the  second  chap- 
ter of  Genesis,  translated  "apple,"  should  be 
rendered  "peach."  Only  this  way  can  I  recon- 
cile that  mysterious  story. — [The  Last  Peach.'\ 

A  Me:diocre  Artist.— The  Hopners,  and  the 
Lawrences,  were  his  Vandykes,  and  his  Velas- 
quezes ;  and  if  he  could  make  anything  like 
them,  he  insured  himself  immortality.  With 
such  guides  he  struggled  on  through  laborious 
nights  and  days,  till  he  reached  the  eminence 
he  aimed  at — of  mediocrity.  Having  gained 
that  summit,  he  sate  down  contented.  If  the 
features  were  but  cognoscible,  no  matter 
whether  the  flesh  resembled  flesh,  or  oil-skin. 
For  the  thousand  tints — the  grains — which  in 
life  diversify  the  nose,  the  chiu,  the  cheek — 
which  a  Reynolds  can  but  coarsely  counterfeit 
— he  cared  nothing  at  all  about  them.  He  left 
such  scrupulosities  to  opticians  and  anatomists. 
If  the  features  were  but  there,  the  character  of 
course  could  not  be  far  off.  A  lucky  hit  which 
he  made  in  painting  the  very  dress  of  a  dressy 


96  Cbarles  Xamb*6 

lady — Mrs.  W — e — ,  whose  handsome  counte- 
nance also,  and  tall  elegance  of  shape,  were  too 
palpable  entirely  to  escape  under  any  masque 
of  oil,  with  which  even  D.  could  overlay  them 
brought  to  him  at  once  an  influx  of  sitters, 
which  almost  rivalled  the  importunate  calls 
upon  Sir  Thomas.  A  portrait  he  did  soon  after, 
of  the  Princess  Charlotte,  clenched  his  fame. 
He  proceeded  Academician.  At  that  memo- 
rable conjuncture  of  time  it  pleased  the  Allied 
Sovereigns  to  visit  England. — {^Recollections  of 
a  Late  Royal  AcademiciaJi.'] 

C1.EAN1.1NESS  AND  Godliness.— Cleanliness, 
saith  some  sage  man,  is  next  to  Godliness.  It 
may  be  ;  but  how  it  came  to  sit  so  very  near, 
is  the  marvel.  Methinks  some  of  the  more 
human  virtues  might  have  put  in  for  a  place 
before  it.  Justice — Humanity — Temperance — 
are  positive  qualities ;  the  courtesies  and  little 
civil  offices  of  life,  had  I  been  Master  of  the 
Ceremonies  to  that  Court,  should  have  sate 
above  the  salt  in  preference  to  a  mere  negation. 
I  confess  there  is  something  wonderfully  re- 


mft  mt>  miie^om  97 

freshing,  in  warm  countries,  in  the  act  of  ablu- 
tion. Those  Mahometan  washings — how  cool 
to  the  imagination  !  but  in  all  these  supersti- 
tions, the  action  itself,  if  not  the  duty,  is  volun- 
tary. But  to  be  washed  perforce  ;  to  have  a 
detestable  flannel  rag  soaked  in  hot  water,  and 
redolent  of  the  very  coarsest  coarse  soap,  in- 
grained with  hard  beads  for  torment,  thrust 
into  your  mouth,  eyes,  nostrils — positively 
Burking  you,  under  pretence  of  cleansing — 
substituting  soap  for  dirt,  the  worst  dirt  of  the 
two — making  your  poor  red  eyes  smart  all 
night,  that  they  might  look  out  brighter  on  the 
Sabbath  morn  (for  their  clearness  was  the  effect 
of  pain  more  than  cleanliness),  could  this  be 
true  religion  ?— [Saturday  Night. "l 

LETTERS. 

On  Martin  Burney.— Martin  Burney  is  as 

good  and  as  odd  as  ever.     We  had  a  dispute 

about  the  word  "  heir,"  which  I  contended  was 

pronounced  like  "air."     He  said  that   might 

be  in  common  parlance ;  or  that  we  might  so 
7 


gs  Cbarles  3Lamb*5 

use  it,  speaking  of  the  "  Heir  at  Law,"  a  com- 
edy ;  but  that  in  the  law  courts  it  was  necessary 
to  give  it  a  full  aspiration,  and  to  say  Hayer  ;  he 
thought  it  might  even  vitiate  a  cause,  if  a  coun- 
sel pronounced  it  otherwise.  In  conclusion, 
he  "  would  consult  Serjeant  Wilde  ;  "  who  gave 
it  against  him.  Sometimes  he  falleth  into  the 
water  ;  sometimes  into  the  fire.  He  came  down 
here,  and  insisted  on  reading  Virgil's  **  Eneid  " 
all  through  with  me  (which  he  did,)  because  a 
Counsel  must  know  Latin.  Another  time  he 
read  out  all  the  Gospel  of  St.  John,  because 
Biblical  quotations  are  very  emphatic  in  a 
Court  of  Justice.  A  third  time  he  would  carve 
a  fowl,  which  he  did  verj'  ill-favoredly,  because 
"  we  did  not  know  how  indispensable  it  was  for 
a  barrister  to  do  all  those  things  well — those 
little  things  were  of  more  consequence  than  we 
supposed."  So  he  goes  on,  harassing  about  the 
way  to  prosperity,  and  losing  it ;  with  a  long 
head,  but  somewhat  a  wrong  one — harum- 
scarum.  Why  does  not  his  guardian  angel  look 
to  him  ?  He  deserves  one  :  may  be,  he  has 
tired  him  out.— [  To  Mrs.  Hazlitt,  May  2^,  /^jo.] 


TRait  anO  TlClfsDom  99 

Wii,i.iAM  THE  IVTH.— Long  live  William 
the IVth  ! 

S.  T.  C.  says  we  have  had  wicked  kings, 
foolish  kings,  wise  kings,  good  kings  (but  few,) 
but  never  till  now  have  we  had  a  blackguard 
king. 

Charles  the  Second  was  profligate,  but  a 
gentleman.— [ 7b  Barton,  June  28,  1830.'] 

On  Bankrupts.— Half  the  world's  misery 
(Bden  else)  is  owing  to  want  of  money,  and  all 
that  want  is  owing  to  bankrupts.  I  declare  I 
would,  if  the  state  wanted  practitioners,  turn 
hangman  myself,  and  should  have  great  pleas- 
ure in  hanging  the  first  bankrupt  after  my 
salutary  law  should  be  established. — [  To  Bar- 
ton y  Dec.  By  182^.1 

On  Debtors.— I  will  tell  you  honestly,  B.  B., 
that  it  has  been  long  my  deliberate  judgment 
that  all  bankrupts,  of  whatsoever  denomination, 
civil  or  religious,  ought  to  be  hanged.  The  pity 
of  mankind  has  for  ages  run  in  a  wrong  channel, 
and  has  been  diverted  from  poor  creditors— 


Cbarlee  ILamb'e 


(how  many  I  have  known  suflferers  !  Hazlitt 
has  just  been  defrauded  of  ;^ioo  by  his  book- 
seller-friends breaking) — to  scoundrel  debtors. 
I  know  all  the  topics — that  distress  may  come 
upon  an  honest  man  without  his  fault ;  that  the 
failure  of  one  that  he  trusted  was  his  calamity, 
etc.  Then  let  both  be  hanged.  O  how  careful 
it  would  make  traders  !  These  are  my  deliber- 
ate thoughts,  after  many  years'  experience  in 
matters  of  trade.     What  a  world  of  trouble  it 

would  have  saved  you,  if  Friend had  been 

immediately  hanged,  without  benefit  of  clergy, 
which  (being  a  Quaker  I  presume)  he  could  not 
reasonably  insist  upon.  Why,  after  slaving 
twelve  months  in  your  assign-business,  you  will 
be  enabled  to  declare  yd.  in  the  pound  in  all 
human  probability.  B.  B. ,  he  should  be  hanged. 
Trade  will  never  re-flourish  in  this  land  till  such 
a  law  is  established. — [7b  Barton,  Dec.  8, 1829.'] 

Arr^TKd  Be;nevoi,ence.  —  When  Miss 
Ouldcroft  (who  is  now  Mrs.  Beddome,  and 
Bed — dom'd  to  her)  was  at  Enfield,  which  she 
was  in  summer  time,  and  owed  her  health  to  its 


XlClit  atiD  TKIl(0Dom 


suns  and  genial  influences,  she  visited  (with 
young  ladylike  impertinence)  a  poor  man's  cot- 
tage that  had  a  pretty  baby  (O  the  yearnling  !) 
gave  it  fine  caps  and  sweetmeats.  On  a  day, 
broke  into  the  parlor  our  two  maids  uproarious. 
"  O  ma'am,  who  do  you  think  Miss  Ouldcroft 
(they  pronounce  it  Holcroft)  has  been  working 
a  cap  for?"  "A  child,"  answered  Mary,  in 
true  Shan  dean  female  simplicity.  "  '  T  is  the 
man's  child  as  was  taken  up  for  sheep-steal- 
ing." Miss  Ouldcroft  was  staggered,  and  would 
have  cut  the  connection,  but  by  main  force  I 
made  her  go  and  take  her  leave  of  her  protigie, 
I  thought,  if  she  went  no  more,  the  Abactor  or 
the  Abactor's  wife  {vide  Ainsworth)  would  sup- 
pose she  had  heard  something,  and  I  have  deli- 
cacy for  a  sheep-stealer.  The  overseers  actually 
overhauled  a  mutton  pie  at  the  baker's  (his 
first,  last,  and  only  hope  of  mutton  pie,)  which 
he  never  came  to  eat,  and  thence  inferred  his 
guilt.— [7b  Procter,  Jan.  2g,  1829.1 

His  Character  for  Veracity.— The  more 
my  character  comes  to  be  known,  the  less  my 


102  Cbarlcs  Xamb's 

veracity  will  come  to  be  suspected.  Time  every 
day  clears  up  some  suspected  narrative  of  Hero- 
dotus, Bruce,  aud  others  of  us  great  travellers. 
Why,  that  Joseph  Paice  was  as  real  a  person  as 
Joseph  Hume,  and  a  great  deal  pleasanter.  A 
careful  observer  of  life,  Bernard,  has  no  need 
to  invent.  Nature  romances  it  for  him. — [7b 
Bar  to  ft,  Feb.  25,  /<?jc».] 

F01.DING  Letters.— I  am  the  worst  folder- 
up  of  a  letter  in  the  world,  except  certain  Hot- 
tentots, in  the  land  of  Caffre,  who  never  fold 
up  their  letters  at  all,  writing  very  badly  upon 
skins,  etc. — [7b  Mrs.  Williams,  April  2,  /(5ja] 

Country  Vii.i,ages. — O  never  let  the  lying 
poets  be  believed,  who  'tice  men  from  the  cheer- 
ful haunts  of  streets,  or  think  they  mean  it  not 
of  a  country  village.  In  the  ruins  of  Palmyra 
I  could  gird  myself  up  to  solitude,  or  muse  to 
the  snorings  of  the  Seven  Sleepers  ;  but  to  have 
a  little  teasing  image  of  a  town  about  one  ; 
country  folks  that  do  not  look  like  country 
folks ;  shops  two  yards  square,  half-a-dozen 
apples,  and  two  penn'orth  of  overlooked  gin- 


Wit  anD  Misbom  103 


ger-bread  for  tlie  lofty  fruiterers  of  Oxford 
Street ;  and,  for  the  immortal  book  and  print 
stalls,  a  circulating  library  that  stands  still, 
where  the  show-picture  is  a  last  year's  Valen- 
tine, and  whither  the  fame  of  the  last  ten 
Scotch  novels  has  not  yet  travelled, — (marry, 
they  just  begin  to  be  conscious  of  the  J^ed- 
gatmtlet :) — to  have  a  new  plastered  flat  church, 
and  to  be  wishing  that  it  was  but  a  cathedral ! 
The  very  blackguards  here  are  degenerate  ;  the 
topping  gentry  stock-brokers  ;  the  passengers 
too  many  to  insure  your  quiet,  or  let  you  go  about 
whistling  or  gaping,  too  few  to  be  the  fine  in- 
different pageants  of  Fleet  Street. — \To  Words- 
worth, Jan.  22,  1830.1 

A  Conversation  in  a  Coach. — The  inci- 
dents of  our  journey  were  trifling,  but  you 
bade  us  tell  them.  "We  had  then  in  the  coach  a 
rather  talkative  gentleman,  but  very  civil  all 
the  way  ;  and  took  up  a  servant  maid  at  Stam- 
ford going  to  a  sick  mistress.  To  the  latter  a 
participation  in  the  hospitalities  of  your  nice 
rusks  and  sandwiches  proved  agreeable,  as  it 


104  Cbarles  Xamb's 

did  to  my  companion,  who  took  merely  a  sip 
of  the  weakest  wine  and  water  with  them. 
The  former  engaged  me  in  a  discourse  for  full 
twenty  miles,  on  the  probable  advantages  of 
steam  carriages,  which,  being  merely  problem- 
atical, I  bore  my  part  in  with  some  credit,  in 
spite  of  my  totally  un-engineer-like  faculties. 
But  when,  somewhere  about  Stanstead,  he  put 
an  unfortunate  question  to  me,  as  to  "the  proba- 
bility of  its  turning  out  a  good  turnip  season," 
and  when  I,  who  am  still  less  of  an  agriculturist 
than  a  steam  philosopher,  not  knowing  a  turnip 
from  a  potato  ground,  innocently  made  answer, 
"I  believe  it  depends  very  much  upon  boiled 
legs  of  mutton,"  my  unlucky  reply  set  Miss 
Isola  a  laughing  to  a  degree  that  disturbed  her 
tranquillity  for  the  only  moment  in  our  jour- 
ney. I  am  afraid  my  credit  sank  very  low  with 
my  other  fellow-traveller,  who  had  thought  he 
had  met  with  a  well-informed  passenger,  which 
is  an  accident  so  desirable  in  a  stage  coach. 
We  were  rather  less  communicative,  but  still 
friendly,  the  rest  of  the  way.— [7^?  Mrs.  Wil- 
liams, April  2,  i830.'\ 


mn  anO  Mls^om  105 

SouThey'S  D1AI.0GUES. — To  get  out  of  home 
themes,  have  you  seen  Southey's  Dialogues? 
His  lake  descriptions,  and  the  account  of  his 
library  at  Keswick,  are  very  fine.  But  he 
need  not  have  called  up  the  ghost  of  More 
to  hold  the  conversations  with  ;  which  might  as 
well  have  passed  between  A  and  B,  or  Caius  and 
Lucius.  It  is  making  too  free  with  a  defunct 
Chancellor  and  Martyr. — [  To  Barton,  July  j, 
i829.-\ 

On  His  New  Domestic— And  to  make  me 
more  alone,  our  ill-tempered  maid  is  gone,  who, 
with  all  her  airs,  was  yet  a  home-piece  of  furni- 
ture, a  record  of  better  days.  The  young  thing 
that  has  succeeded  her  is  good  and  attentive, 
but  she  is  nothing.  And  I  have  no  one  here  to 
talk  over  old  matters  with.  Scolding  and  quar- 
relling have  something  of  familiarity,  and  a 
community  of  interest ;  they  imply  acquaint- 
ance ;  they  are  of  resentment,  which  is  of  the 
family  of  dearness. 

I  can  neither  scold  nor  quarrel  at  this  insig- 
nificant implement  of  household  services  :  she 


106  Cbarles  Xamb's 

is  less  than  a  cat,  and  just  better  than  a  deal 
dresser.— [Zb  Barton,  July  Sy  182^.] 

On  Ai^bums. — We  are  in  the  last  ages  of  the 
world,  when  St.  Paul  prophesied  that  women 
should  be  "headstrong,  lovers  of  their  own 
wills,  having  albums,"  I  fled  hither  to  escape 
the  albumean  persecution,  and  had  not  been  in 
my  new  house  twenty-four  hours  when  the 
daughter  of  the  next  house  came  in  with  a 
friend's  album  to  beg  a  contribution,  and  the 
following  day  intimated  that  she  had  one  of  her 
own.  Two  more  have  sprung  up  since.  *'  If  I 
take  the  wings  of  the  morning  "  and  fly  unto 
the  uttermost  parts  of  the  earth,  there  will  al- 
bums be.  New  Holland  has  albums.  But  the 
age  is  to  be  complied  with. — \To  Procter y  Jan. 
jg,  i82g.'\ 

Cats  and  Homer.— I  never  knew  before 
how  the  Iliad  and  Odyssey  were  written.  'T  is 
strikingly  corroborated  by  observations  on 
Cats.  These  domestic  animals,  put  'em  on  a  rug 
before  the  fire,  wink  their  eyes  up,  and  listen  to 


mit  anD  mfsDom  lo-/ 

the    kettle,    and    then    purr,    which    is    their 
poetry. — [To  Coleridge,  i82g.'\ 

On  Monuments. — Monuments  to  goodness, 
even  after  death,  are  equivocal.  I  turn  away 
from  Howard's,  I  scarce  know  why.  Goodness 
blows  no  trumpet,  nor  desires  to  have  it  blown. 
We  should  be  modest  for  a  modest  yuan — as  he 
is  for  himself.  The  vanities  of  life — art,  poetry, 
skill  military — are  subjects  for  trophies  ;  not  the 
silent  thoughts  arising  in  a  good  man's  mind 
in  lonely  places.  Was  I  Clarkson,  I  should 
never  be  able  to  walk  or  ride  near  the  spot 
again.  Instead  of  bread,  we  are  giving  him  a 
stone.  Instead  of  the  locality  recalling  the  no- 
blest moment  of  his  existence,  it  is  a  place  at 
which  his  friends  (that  is,  himself)  blow  to  the 
world,  '^'  What  a  good  man  is  he  !  " — \To  Mrs. 
Mo7itagu,  1828.'] 

A  Fine  KdiTion  of  Bunyan.— A  splendid 
edition  of  '*  Bunyan's  Pilgrim  "  !  Why,  the 
thought  is  enough  to  turn  one's  moral  stomach. 
His  cockle-hat  and  staff  transformed  to  a  smart 
cock'd  beaver  and  a  jemmy  cane  ;  his  amice 


io8  Cbarles  ILamb's 

gray,  to  the  last  Regent  Street  cut ;  and  his 
painful  palmer's  pace  to  the  modern  swagger. 
Stop  thy  friend's  sacrilegious  hand.  Nothing 
can  be  done  for  B.  but  to  reprint  the  old  cuts  in 
as  homely  but  good  a  style  as  possible.  The 
Vanity  Fair,  and  the  Pilgrims  there — the  silly- 
soothness  in  his  setting-out  countenance — the 
Christian  Idiocy  (in  a  good  sense)  of  his  admi- 
ration of  the  shepherds  on  the  Delectable 
Mountains  ;  the  lions,  so  truly  allegorical,  and 
remote  from  any  similitude  to  Pidcock's  ;  the 
great  head  (the  author's)  capacious  of  dreams 
and  similitudes,  dreaming  in  the  dungeon.  Per- 
haps you  don't  know  my  edition,  what  I  had 
w^hen  a  child.  If  you  do,  can  you  bear  new 
designs  from  Martin,  enamelled  into  copper 
or  silver  plate  by  Heath,  accompanied  with 
verses  from  Mrs.  Hemans'  pen,  O  how  unlike 
his  own. — \_To  Barto7i,  Oct.  ii,  1828.^ 

Autobiographies.— Dear  Cowden  —  Your 
books  are  as  the  gushing  of  streams  in  a  desert. 
By  the  way,  you  have  sent  no  autobiographies. 
Your  letter  seems  to  imply  you  had.      Nor  do  I 


IKDlft  an&  TimisOom  109 

want  any.  Cowden,  they  are  of  the  books 
which  I  give  away.  What  damn'd  Unitarian 
skewer-soul'd  things  the  general  biographies 
turn  out ! — [To  Cowden  Clarke^  Feb.  2,  i82<).'\ 

A  Criticism  on  a  Painting.— Dear  Raffaele 
Haydon — Did  the  maid  tell  you  I  came  to  see 
your  picture,  not  on  Sunday  but  the  day  before  ? 
I  think  the  face  and  bearing  of  the  Bucephalus 
tamer  very  noble,  his  flesh  too  effeminate  or 
painty.  The  skin  of  the  female's  back  kneel- 
ing is  much  more  carnous.  I  had  small  time 
to  pick  out  praise  or  blame,  for  two  lord-like 
Bucks  came  in,  upon  whose  strictures  my  pres- 
ence seemed  to  impose  restraint ;  I  plebeian'd 
oflf  therefore.— [71?  B,  R.  Haydon,  March, 
i827.-\ 

"  Wet  or  Wai<ky."— My  heart  sometimes  is 
good,  sometimes  bad  about  it,  as  the  day  turns 
out  wet  or  walky. 

Emma  has  just  died,  choked  with  a  Gerund- 
in-dum.  On  opening  her,  we  found  a  Particle- 
in-rus  in  the  pericardium.    The  King  never  dies, 


no  Charles  Xamb's 

which  may  be  the  reason  that  it  always  reigns 
here.— [r^  Dibdin,  Sept.  13,  182/.'] 

Dewcacy  of  Feewng.— As  my  poor  cousin, 
the  bookbinder,  now  with  God,  told  me  most 
sentimentally,  that  having  purchased  a  pic- 
ture of  fish  at  a  dead  man's  sale,  his  heart  ached 
to  see  how  the  widow  grieved  to  part  with  it, 
being  her  dear  husband's  favorite  ;  and  he  al- 
most apologized  for  his  generosity  by  saying 
he  could  not  help  telling  the  widow  she  was 
"Welcome  to  come  and  look  at  it" — e.  g.,  at 
his  house — "as  often  as  she  pleased."  There 
was  the  germ  of  generosity  in  an  uneducated 
mind.  He  had  just  reading  enough  from  the 
backs  of  books  for  the  **  nee  sinit  esse  feros  "  ; 
had  he  read  inside,  the  same  impulse  would  have 
led  him  to  give  back  the  two-guinea  thing — 
with  a  request  to  see  it,  now  and  then,  at  her 
house.  We  are  parroted  into  delicacy. — Thus 
you  have  a  tale  for  a  Sonnet. — [7b  Barron 
Field,  October  4,  1827. '\ 

Rewgion  and  Good  Words.— There  may 
be  too  much,  not  religion,  but  too  many  good 


Mit  aiiD  misoom 


words  in  a  book,  till  it  becomes,  as  Sh says 

of  religion,  a  rhapsody  of  words. — To  Barton, 
Dec.  5,  1828.'] 

A  Good  Man. — And  yet  I  am  accounted  by 
some  people  a  good  man  !  How  cheap  that 
character  is  acquired !  Pay  your  debts,  don't 
borrow  money,  nor  twist  your  kitten's  neck 
off,  nor  disturb  a  congregation,  etc.,  your  busi- 
ness is  done.  I  know  things  (thoughts  or 
things,  thoughts  are  things)  of  myself,  which 
would  make  every  friend  I  have  fly  me  as  a 
plague  patient.  I  once  .  .  .,  and  set  a 
dog  upon  a  crab's  leg  that  was  shoved  out  under 
a  mass  of  sea-weeds,— a  pretty  little  feeler.  Oh 
pah  !  how  sick  I  am  of  that !  and  a  lie,  a  mean 
one,  I  once  told  ! — I  stink  in  the  midst  of 
respect.  I  am  much  hypt. — \To  Barton,  Feb. 
25, 1824.^ 

FiNANCiAi.  Experiments.— Taylor  and  Hes- 
sey  finding  their  magazine  goes  off  very  heavily 
at  2s.  6d.  are  prudently  going  to  raise  their 
price  another  shilling  ;  and  having  already  more 
authors  than  they  want,  intend  to  increase  the 


Cbarles  Xamb's 


number  of  them.  If  they  set  up  against  the  New 
Monthly  they  must  change  their  present  hands. 
It  is  not  tying  the  dead  carcass  of  a  Review  to 
a  half-dead  Magazine  will  do  their  business.  It 
is  like  George  Dyer  multiplying  his  volumes  to 
make  'em  sell  better.  When  he  finds  one  will 
not  go  off,  he  publishes  two  ;  two  stick,  he  tries 
three  ;  three  hang  fire,  he  is  confident  that  four 
will  have  a  better  chance. — [Zb  Barton^  Dec. 
/,  i824.-\ 

On  the  Death  oe  Byron.— So  we  have 
lost  another  poet.  I  never  much  relished  his 
Lordship's  mind,  and  shall  be  sorry  if  the 
Greeks  have  cause  to  miss  him.  He  was  to  me 
offensive,  and  I  never  can  make  out  his  great 
power  which  his  admirers  talk  of  Why,  a  line 
of  Wordsworth's  is  a  lever  to  lift  the  immortal 
spirit !  Byron  can  only  move  the  spleen.  He 
was  at  best  a  Satyrist, — in  any  other  way  he 
was  mean  enough.  I  dare  say  I  do  him  injus- 
tice ;  but  I  cannot  love  him,  nor  squeeze  a  tear 
to  his  memory.  He  did  not  like  the  world,  and 
he  has  left  it,  as  Alderman  Curtis  advised  the 


•QClit  aiiD  'CClisDom 


Radicals,  "If  they  don't  like  their  Country, 
damn  'em,  let  'em  leave  it,"  they  possessing 
no  rood  of  ground  in  England,  and  he  10,000 
acres.  Byron  was  better  than  many  Curtises. — 
[To  Barton,  April,  1824.'] 

Ringing  in  the  Ears. — I  have  had  my  head 
and  ears  stuffed  up  with  the  East  winds  :  a  con- 
tinual ringing  in  my  brain  of  bells  jangled,  or 
the  spheres  touched  by  somerav/  angel.  Is  it  not 
George  the  Third  tr^-ing  the  Hundredth  Psalm  ? 
I  get  my  music  for  nothing.  But  the  weather 
seems  to  be  softening,  and  will  thaw  my  stun- 
nings.  Coleridge,  writing  to  me  a  week  or  two 
since,  begins  his  note — "  vSummer  has  set  in 
with  its  usual  severity." — \_To  Barton,  May  16, 
1826.1 

Puns. — I  never  knew  an  enemy  to  puns  who 
was  not  an  ill-natured  man.  Your  fair  critic  in 
the  coach  reminds  me  of  a  Scotchman  who  as- 
sured me  he  did  not  see  much  in  vShakespeare, 
I  replied,  I  dare  say  not.  He  felt  the  equivoke, 
looked  awkward  and  reddis'h,  but  soon  returned 
to  the  attack  by  saying  that  he  thought  Burns 


114  Cbarlcs  Xamb's 

was  as  good  as  Shakespeare.  I  said  that  I  had 
no  doubt  he  was  —  to  a  Scotchman.  We  ex- 
changed no  more  words  that  day. — \To  J.  B. 
Dibdin,  June,  1826.'^ 

A  Tiny  Church. — And  go  to  the  little  church 
which  is  a  very  Protestant  Loretto,  and  seems 
dropt  by  some  angel  for  the  use  of  a  hermit  who 
was  at  once  parishioner  and  a  whole  parish.  It 
is  not  too  big.  Go  in  the  night  ;  bring  it  away 
in  your  portmanteau,  and  I  will  plant  it  in  my 
garden.  It  must  have  been  erected  in  the  wQvy 
infancy  of  British  Christianity,  for  the  tw^o  or 
three  first  converts  ;  yet  with  it  all  the  appert- 
enances  of  a  church  of  the  first  magnitude — its 
pulpit,  its  pews,  its  baptismal  font ;  a  cathedral 
in  a  nutshell.  Seven  people  would  crowd  it 
like  a  Caledonian  Chapel.  The  minister  that 
divides  the  Word  there  must  give  lumping 
pennyworths.  It  is  built  to  the  text  of  ' '  two 
or  three  assembled  in  my  name."  It  reminds 
me  of  the  grain  of  mustard-seed.  If  the  glebe- 
land  is  proportionate  it  may  yield  two  potatoes. 
Tithes  out  of  it  could  be  no  more  split  than  a 


Wiit  aiiD  mis&om  115 


hair.  Its  First  fruits  must  be  its  Last,  for 
'twould  never  produce  a  couple.  It  is  truly  ttie 
strait  and  narrow  way,  and  few  there  be  (of 
London  visitants)  that  find  it.  The  still  small 
voice  is  surely  to  be  found  there,  if  anywhere. 
A  sounding-board  is  merel}'  there  for  ceremony. 
It  is  secure  from  earthquakes,  not  more  from 
sanctity  than  size,  for 'twould  feel  a  mountain 
thrown  upon  it  no  more  than  a  taper-worm 
would.  Go  and  see,  but  not  without  your 
spectacles. — {_To  J.  B.  Dibdin,  June  14, 1826.1 

Poets  as  Critics. — I  wished  for  you  yester- 
day. I  dined  in  Parnassus,  with  Wordsworth, 
Coleridge,  Rogers,  and  Tom  Moore, — half  the 
poetry  of  England  constellated  and  clustered  in 
Gloucester  Place  !  It  was  a  delightful  evening. 
Coleridge  was  in  his  finest  vein  of  talk — had  all 
the  talk  ;  and  let  'em  talk  as  evilly  as  they  do 
of  the  envy  of  poets,  I  am  sure  not  one 
there  but  was  content  to  be  nothing  but  a  lis- 
tener. The  Muses  were  dumb  while  Apollo 
lectured  on  his  and  their  fine  art.  It  is  a  lie 
that  poets  are  envious.     I  have  know^n  the  besl 


ii6  (Ibarlc6  Xamb's 

of  them,  and  can  speak  to  it,  that  they  give  each 
other  their  merits,  and  are  the  kindest  critics  as 
well  as  best  authors. — [To  Barton,  March  5, 
1823. \ 

On  Edward  Irving. — I  have  got  acquainted 
with  Mr.  Irving,  the  Scotch  preacher,  whose 
fame  must  have  reached  you.  He  is  an  humble 
disciple  at  the  foot  of  Gamaliel,  S.  T.  C.  Judge 
how  his  own  sectarists  must  stare,  when  I  tell 
you  he  has  dedicated  abook  to  S.  T.  C,  acknowl- 
edging to  have  learnt  more  of  the  nature  of 
faith,  Christianity,  and  Christian  Church  from 
him  than  from  all  the  men  he  ever  con- 
versed with  !  He  is  a  most  amiable,  sincere, 
modest  man  in  a  room,  this  Boanerges  in  the 
temple.  Mrs.  Montagu  told  him  the  dedica- 
tion would  do  him  no  good.  "That  shall  be  a 
reason  for  doing  it,"  was  his  answer.  Judge, 
now,  whether  this  man  be  a  quack. — \To Leigh 
Hunt,  1S24.'] 

Don  Quixote.  —  Quixote  is  the  father  of 
gentle  ridicule,  and  at  the  same  time  the  very 


mn  anD  limteOom 


depository  aud  treasury  of  chivalry  and  highest 
notions.  Marry,  when  somebody  persuaded 
Cervantes  that  he  meant  only  fun,  aud  put  him 
upon  writing  that  unfortunate  Second  Part  with 
the  confederacies  of  that  unworthy  duke  and 
most  contemptible  duchess,  Cervantes  sacrificed 
his  instinct  to  his  understanding. — [  To  Soitthey, 
Aug.  10,182s.'] 

Bi^AKE'S  Drawings. — Blake  is  a  real  name, 
I  assure  you,  aud  a  most  extraordinary  man,  if 
he  be  still  living.  He  is  the  Robert  Blake, 
whose  wild  designs  accompany  a  splendid  folio 
edition  of  the  Night  Thoughts,  v/hich  you  may 
have  seen,  in  one  of  which  he  pictures  the  part- 
ing of  soul  and  body  by  a  solid  mass  of  human 
form  floating  off,  God  knows  hov/,  from  a  lump- 
ish mass  (fac-simile  to  itself)  left  behind  on  the 
dying  bed.  He  paints  in  water  colors  marvel- 
lous strange  pictures,  visions  of  his  brain,  which 
he  asserts  that  he  has  seen.  They  have  great 
merit.  He  has  seen  the  old  Welsh  bards  on 
Snowdon — he  has  seen  the  Beautifullest,  the 
strongest,  and  the  Ugliest  Man,  left  alone  from 


ii8  Cbarles  Xamb's 

the  Massacre  of  the  Britons  by  the  Romans,  and 
has  painted  them  from  memory  (I  have  seen 
his  paintings),  and  asserts  them  to  be  as  good 
as  the  figures  of  Raphael  and  Angelo,  but  not 
better,  as  they  had  precisely  the  same  retro- 
visions  and  prophetic  visions  with  themself 
[himself]. — \^To  Barton,  April,  1824..'] 

Making  Cai.i.s. — But  indeed  I  am  ill  at  these 
ceremonious  inductions.  I  fancy  I  was  not 
born  with  a  call  on  my  head,  though  I  have 
brought  one  down  upon  it  with  a  vengeance. 
I  love  not  to  pluck  that  sort  of  fruit  crude,  but 
to  stay  its  ripening  into  visits. — \^To  Procter, 
Nov.  II,  1824.1 

SheIvI^Ey. — I  can  no  more  understand  Shelley 
than  you  can.  His  poetry  is  "thin  sown  with 
profit  or  delight."  Yet  I  must  point  to  your 
notice  a  sonnet  conceived  and  expressed  with 
a  witty  delicacy.  It  is  that  addressed  to  one 
who  hated  him,  but  w^ho  could  not  persuade 
him  to  hate  /inn  again.  His  coyness  to  the 
other's  passion — (for  hate  demands  a  return  as 


•omit  anO  misDoni  ng 

much  as  love,  and  starves  without  it) — is  most 
arch  and  pleasant.  Pray,  like  it  very  much. 
For  his  theories  and  nostrums,  they  are  oracular 
enough  ;  but  I  either  comprehend  'em  not,  or 
there  is  "  miching  malice  "  and  mischief  in  'em, 
but,  for  the  most  part,  ringing  with  their  own 
emptiness.  Hazlitt  said  well  of  'em — "Many 
are  the  wiser  and  better  for  reading  Shakespeare, 
but  nobody  was  ever  wiser  or  better  for  reading 
Shelley."— [7b  Barto7i,  Aug.,  182^.1 

Sii.e:nt  Scripture. — No  book  can  have  too 
much  of  silent  Scripture  in  it ;  but  the  natural 
power  of  a  story  is  diminished  when  the  upper- 
most purpose  in  the  writer  seems  to  be  to  recom- 
mend something  else,  viz.  :  Religion.  You 
know  what  Horace  says  of  the  Detis  intersit. — 
[Zb  Barton,  Jan.  23,  182^.1 

On  Sunday. — I  am  sure  I  cannot  fill  a  letter, 
though  I  should  disfurnish  my  skull  to  fill  it ; 
but  you  expect  something,  and  shall  have  a 
notelet.  Is  Sunday,  not  divinely  speaking,  but 
humanly  and  holidaysically,  a  blessing  ?  With- 
out its  institution,  would  our  rugged  task-mas- 


Cbarles  Xamb's 


ters  have  giveu  us  a  leisure  day,  so  often,  think 
you,  as  once  in  a  month  ?  or,  if  it  had  not  been 
instituted,  might  they  not  have  given  us  every 
sixth  day  ?  Solve  me  this  problem.  If  we  are 
to  go  three  times  a  day  to  church,  why  has  Sun- 
day slipped  into  the  notion  of  a  /zc'/Z/day  ?  A 
HoivYday  I  grant  it.  The  Puritans,  I  have  read 
in  Southey's  book,  knew  the  distinction.  They 
made  people  observe  Sunday  rigorously,  would 
not  let  a  nursery-maid  walk  out  in  the  fields 
with  children  for  recreation  on  that  day.  But 
then — they  gave  the  people  a  holiday  from  all 
sorts  of  work  every  second  Tuesday.  This  was 
giving  to  the  two  Coesars  that  which  was  his  re- 
spective. Wise,  beautiful,  thoughtful,  generous 
legislators !  Would  Wilberforce  give  us  our 
Tuesdays  ?  No  :  (d — n  him  !) — he  would  turn  the 
six  days  into  sevenths. — [7b  Bartofi,  Aprily 
1824.1 

A  "Day-Mare." — Do  you  know  what  it  is 
to  succumb  under  an  unsurmountable  day-mare 
— "a  whoreson  lethargy,"  Falstaff  calls  it, — an 
indisposition  to  do  anything,  or  to  be  anything, 


limit  anD  MisDom  121 

— a  total  deadness  and  distaste,  a  suspension  of 
vitality, — an  indiflference  to  locality,— a  numb, 
soporifical,  good-for-nothingness, — an  ossifica- 
tion all  over, — an  oyster-like  insensibility  to  the 
passing  events, — a  mild  stupor, — a  brawny  defi- 
ance to  the  needles  of  a  thrusting-in  conscience  ? 
Did  you  ever  have  a  very  bad  cold,  with  a  total 
irresolution  to  submit  to  w^ater-gruel  processes. 
This  has  been  for  many  weeks  my  lot  and  my 
excuse.  My  fingers  drag  heavily  over  this  pa- 
per, and  to  my  thinking  it  is  three-and-twenty 
furlongs  from  here  to  the  end  of  this  demi- 
sheet.  I  have  not  a  thing  to  say  ;  nothing  is 
of  more  importance  than  another ;  I  am  flatter 
than  a  denial  or  a  pancake  ;  emptier  than  Judge 
Park's  wig  when  the  head  is  in  it ;  duller  than 
a  country  stage  when  the  actors  are  off  it ;  a 
cipher,  an  O  !  I  acknowledge  life  at  all,  only 
by  an  occasional  convulsional  cough,  and  a  per- 
manent phlegmatic  pain  in  the  chest.  I  am 
weary  of  the  world  ;  life  is  weary  of  me.  My  day 
is  gone  into  twilight,  and  I  don't  think  it  worth 
the  expense  of  candles.  My  wick  hath  a  thief 
in  it,  but  I  can't  muster  courage  to  snuff  it.   I  in- 


Cbarles  Xamb^s 


hale  suffocation  ;  I  can't  distinguish  veal  from 
mutton ;  nothing  interests  me.  'Tis  twelve 
o'clock,  and  Thurtell  is  just  now  coming  out 
upon  the  New  Drop,  Jack  Ketch  alertly  tucking 
up  his  greasy  sleeves  to  do  the  last  oflBice  of 
mortality  ;  yet  cannot  I  elicit  a  groan  or  a  moral 
reflection.  If  you  told  me  the  world  will  be  at 
an  end  to-morrow,  I  should  just  say,  "  Will  it  ?  " 
I  have  not  volition  enough  to  dot  my  z's,  much 
less  to  comb  my  eyebrows  ;  my  eyes  are  set  in 
my  head  ;  my  brains  are  gone  out  to  see  a  poor 
relation  in  Moorfields,  and  they  did  not  say 
when  they  'd  come  back  again  ;  my  skull  is  a 
Grub  Street  attic,  to  let — not  so  much  as  a  joint- 
stool  or  a  crack'd  Jordan  left  in  it ;  my  hand 
writes,  not  I,  from  habit,  as  chickens  run  about 
a  little  when  their  heads  are  off.  O  for  a  vigor- 
ous fit  of  gout,  cholic,  toothache, — an  earwig  in 
my  auditor}',  a  fly  in  my  ^^sual  organs  !  Pain 
is  life — the  sharper,  the  more  evidence  of  life ; 
but  this  apathy,  this  death  !  Did  you  ever  have 
an  obstinate  cold, — a  six  or  seven  weeks'  unin- 
termitting  chill  and  suspension  of  hope,  fear, 
conscience,  and  everything?     Yet  do  I  try  all  I 


mit  auD  misOom  123 

can  to  cure  it ;  I  trj-  wine,  and  spirits,  and 
smoking,  and  snuff  in  unsparing  quantities; 
but  they  all  only  seem  to  make  me  worse, 
instead  of  better.  I  sleep  in  a  damp  room,  but 
it  does  me  no  good ;  I  come  home  late 
o'  nights,  but  do  not  find  any  visible  amend- 
ment !  Who  shall  deliver  me  from  the  body  of 
this  death  ? 

It  is  just  fifteen  minutes  after  twelve.  Thur- 
tell  is  by  this  time  a  good  way  on  his  journey, 
baiting  at  Scorpion  perhaps  ;  Ketch  is  bargain- 
ing for  his  cast  coat  and  waist-coat.  The  Jew 
demurs  at  first  at  three  half-crowns  ;  but  in  con- 
sideration that  he  may  get  somewhat  by  show- 
ing 'em  in  the  town,  finally  closes. — [  To  Barton, 
Jan.  p,  1824.1 

**  The  Longest  Liver." — You  are  too  much 
apprehensive  of  your  complaint :  I  know  many 
that  are  always  ailing  of  it,  and  live  on  to  a 
good  old  age.  I  know  a  merry  fellow  (you 
partly  know  him)  who,  when  his  medical  advi- 
ser told  him  he  had  drunk  away  all  that  part, 
congratulated  himself  (now  that  his  liver  was 


124  Cbaclcs  Xamb'6 

gone)  that  he  should  be  the  longest  liver  of  the 
two.— [To  Barton,  Nov.  22, 182^.1 

On  H.  F.  Gary. — I  hope  you  transmitted  the 
Fox-Journal  to  its  owner,  with  suitable  thanks. 
Mr.  Gary,  the  Dante-man,  dines  with  me  to-day. 
He  is  a  model  of  a  country  parson,  lean  (as  a 
curate  ought  to  be),  modest,  sensible,  no  ob- 
truder  of  church  dogmas,  quite  a  different  man 
from  Southey.  You  would  like  him.  Pray 
accept  this  for  a  letter,  and  believe  me,  with  sin- 
cere regards.— [7^7  Barton,  Sept.  2,  i82j.'\ 

A  Church  at  Hastings.— The  best  thing  I 
lit  upon  by  accident  was  a  small  country  church 
(by  whom  or  when  built  unknown),  standing 
bare  and  single  in  the  midst  of  a  grove,  with  no 
house  or  appearance  of  habitation  within  a 
quarter  of  a  mile,  only  passages  diverging 
from  it  through  beautiful  woods  to  so  many 
farmhouses.  There  it  stands  like  the  first  idea 
of  a  church,  before  parishioners  were  thought 
of,  nothing  but  birds  for  its  congregation ;  or 
like  a  hermit's  oratory  (the  hermit  dead),  or  a 


limit  aiiD  TlUlisDom  125 

mausoleum ;  its  effect  singularly  impressive, 
like  a  cliurcli  found  in  a  desert  isle  to  startle 
Crusoe  with  a  home  image.  You  must  make 
out  a  vicar  and  a  congregation  from  fancy,  for 
surely  none  came  there  ;  yet  it  wants  not  its  pul- 
pit, and  its  font,  and  all  the  seemly  additaments 
of  <7«r  worship. — [71?  Barton,  July  10,  182^.'] 

On  SouThey's  Criticism. — Southey  has  at- 
tacked Elia  on  the  score  of  infidelity,  in  the 
Quarterly  article,  Progress  of  Infidelity.  I  had 
not,  nor  have  seen  the  Monthly.  He  might 
have  spared  an  old  friend  such  a  construction 
of  a  few  careless  flights,  that  meant  no  harm  to 
religion.     If  all  his  unguarded  expressions  on 

the  subject  were  to   be   collected !     But  I 

love  and  respect  Southey,  and  will  not  retort. 
I  hate  his  review,  and  his  being  a  reviewer.  The 
hint  he  has  dropped  will  knock  the  sale  of  the 
book  on  the  head,  which  was  almost  at  a  stop 
before.  Let  it  stop, — there  is-  corn  in  Egypt, 
while  there  is  cash  at  Leadenhall.  You  and  I 
are  something  besides  being  writers,  thank 
God  ! — [Tb  Barton,  July  10,  1S2J']. 


126  Cbarles  Xamb'6 

Benefit  oe  Ignorance. — The  best  thing  in 
these  cases  is  to  keep  yourself  as  ignorant  as 
you  can,  as  ignorant  as  the  world  was  before 
Galen,  of  the  entire  inner  construction  of  the 
animal  man  ;  not  to  be  conscious  of  a  midriff; 
to  hold  kidneys  (save  of  sheep  and  swine)  to  be 
an  agreeable  fiction  ;  not  to  know  whereabout 
the  gall  grows  ;  to  account  the  circulation  of 
the  blood  an  idle  whimsey  of  Harvey's  ;  to  ac- 
knowledge no  mechanism  not  visible.  For, 
once  fix  the  seat  of  your  disorder,  and  your 
fancies  flux  into  it  like  bad  humors.  Those 
medical  gentries  choose  each  his  favorite  part ; 
one  takes  the  lungs,  another  the  aforesaid  liver, 
and  refer  to  that  whatever  in  the  animal  econ- 
omy is  amiss.  Above  all,  use  exercise,  take  a 
little  more  spirituous  liquors,  learn  to  smoke, 
continue  to  keep  a  good  conscience,  and  avoid 
tampering  with  hard  terms  of  art — viscosity, 
scirrhosity,  and  those  bugbears  by  which  simple 
patients  are  scared  into  their  graves.  Believe 
the  general  sense  of  the  mercantile  world,  which 
holds  that  desks  are  not  deadly.  It  is  the  mind, 
good  B.  B.,  and  not  the  limbs,   that  taints  by 


mft  anD  WlsDom  127 

long  sitting.  Think  of  the  patience  of  tailors  ! 
Think  how  long  the  Ivord  Chancellor  sits  ! 
Think  of  the  brooding  hen  ! — \To  Barton,  Nov. 
22,  182s.'] 

His  Tender  Conscience.— Dear  B.  B.— I 
am  ashamed  at  not  acknowledging  your  kind 
little  poem,  which  I  must  needs  like  much  ;  but 
I  protest  I  thought  I  had  done  it  at  the  moment. 
Is  it  possible  a  letter  has  miscarried  ?  Did  you 
get  one  in  which  I  sent  you  an  extract  from 
the  poems  of  I/ord  Stirling  ?  I  should  wonder 
if  you  did,  for  I  sent  you  none  such.  There  was 
an  incipient  lie  strangled  in  the  birth.  Some 
people's  conscience  is  so  tender  !  But,  in  plain 
truth,  I  thank  you  very  much  for  the  verses.  I 
have  a  very  kind  letter  from  the  Laureate,  with 
a  self-invitation  to  come  and  shake  hands  with 
me.  This  is  truly  handsome  and  noble.  '  Tis 
worthy  of  my  old  idea  of  Southey.  Shall  not  I, 
think  you,  be  covered  with  a  red  suffusion. — 
[To  Barton,  Nov.  22,  1S2J.] 

Giving  up  Smoking.— I  design  to  give  up 
smoking;  but  I  have  not  yet  fixed  upon  the 


128  Gbarles  %nmb*6 

equivalent  vice.  I  must  have  quid  pro  quo  or 
quo  pro  quid,  as  Tom  Woodgate  would  correct 
me. — {To  Hood,  182^.2 

On  De  Foe's  Writings.— I  have  nothing 
of  De  Foe's  but  two  or  three  novels  and  the 
Plague  History.  I  can  give  you  no  informa- 
tion about  him.  As  a  slight  general  character  of 
what  I  remember  of  them  (for  I  have  not  looked 
into  them  latterly),  I  would  say  that  in  the  ap- 
pearance oi  truth,  in  all  the  incidents  and  con- 
versations that  occur  in  them,  they  exceed  any 
works  of  fiction  I  am  acquainted  with.  It  is 
perfect  illusion.  The  author  never  appears  in 
these  self-narratives  (for  so  they  ought  to  be 
called,  or  rather  autobiographies),  but  the  nar- 
rator chains  us  down  to  an  implicit  belief  in 
everything  he  says.  There  is  all  the  minute 
details  of  a  log-book  in  it.  Dates  are  painfully 
pressed  upon  the  memory.  Facts  are  repeated 
over  and  over  in  varying  phases,  till  you  can- 
not choose  but  believe  them.  It  is  like  read- 
ing evidence  given  in  a  court  of  justice.  So 
anxious  the  story-teller  seems  that  the  truth 


mft  anD  WlsOom  129 

should  be  clearly  comprehended,  then  when  he 
has  told  us  a  matter  of  fact  or  a  motive,  in  a 
line  or  two  farther  down  he  repeats  it,  with  his 
favorite  figure  of  speech,  "  I  say,"  so  and  so, 
though  he  had  made  it  abundantly  plain  before. 
This  is  in  imitation  of  the  common  people's 
way  of  speaking,  or  rather  of  the  way  in  which 
they  are  addressed  by  a  master  or  a  mistress, 
who  wishes  to  impress  something  upon  their 
memories,  and  has  a  wonderful  effect  upon 
matter-of-fact  readers.  Indeed  it  is  to  such 
principally  that  he  writes.  His  style  is  every- 
where beautiful,  but  plain  and  homely.  Rob- 
inson Crusoe  is  delightful  to  all  ranks  and 
classes,  but  it  is  easy  to  see  that  it  is  written  in 
the  phraseology  peculiarly  adapted  to  the  lower 
condition  of  readers  ;  hence  it  is  an  especial 
favorite  with  seafaring  men,  poor  boys,  servant 
maids,  etc.  His  novels  are  capital  kitchen- 
reading,  while  they  are  worthy,  from  their  deep 
interest,  to  find  a  shelf  in  the  libraries  of  the 
wealthiest  and  the  most  learned.  His  passion  for 
matter-of-fact  narrative  sometimes  betrayed 
him  into  a  long  relation  of  common  incidents. 


I30  Cbarlcs  Xamb*6 

which  might  happen  to  any  man,  and  have  no 
interest  but  the  intense  appearance  of  truth  in 
them,  to  recommend  them. — [To  Walter  Wil- 
son,  Dec.  i6,  1822.'] 

Faust. — I  thoroughly  agree  with  you  as  to 
the  German  Faiist  as  far  as  I  can  do  justice 
to  it  from  an  English  translation.  'Tis  a  dis- 
agreeable canting  tale  of  seduction,  which  has 
nothing  to  do  with  the  spirit  of  Faustus — Curi- 
osity. Was  the  dark  secret  to  be  explored  to 
end  in  the  seducing  of  a  weak  girl,  which  might 
have  been  accomplished  by  earthly  agency? 
When  Marlow  gives  his  Faustus  a  mistress,  he 
flies  him  at  Helen,  flower  of  Greece,  to  be  sure, 
and  not  at  Miss  Betsy,  or  Miss  Sally  Thoughtless. 

"  Cut  is  the  branch  that  bore  the  goodly  fruit, 
And  wither'd  is  Apollo's  laurel  tree, 
Faustus  is  dead." 

— \_To  AtTisworik,  Dec.  9,  182^.'] 

Home. — Home  is  become  strange,  and  will 
remain  so  yet  awhile  ;  home  is  the  most  unfor- 
giving of  friends,  and  always  resents  absence  ; 


llClit  anD  "MisDom  131 


I  know  its  old  cordial  looks  will  return,  but 
they  are  slow  in  clearing  up. — [  To  Bartoft,  July, 
10,  1823. "[ 

On  Pope's  Portrait. — I  have  hungup  Pope, 
and  a  gem  it  is,  in  my  town  room  ;  I  hope  for 
your  approval.  Though  it  accompanies  the 
Essay  on  Man,  I  think  that  was  not  the  poem 
he  is  here  meditating.  He  would  have  looked 
up,  somehow  affectedly,  if  he  were  just  conceiv- 
ing "  Awake,  my  St.  John."  Neither  is  he  in 
the  Rape  of  the  Lock  mood  exactly.  I  think  he 
has  just  made  out  the  last  lines  of  the  "  Epistle 
to  Jervis,"  between  gay  and  tender, 

"  And  other  beauties  envy  Worsley's  eyes." 

I  '11  be  d 'd  if  that  is  n't  the  line.     He  is 

brooding  over  it,  with  a  dreamy  phantom  of 
Lady  Mary  floating  before  him.  He  is  think- 
ing which  is  the  earliest  possible  day  and  hour 
that  she  will  first  see  it.  What  a  miniature  piece 
of  gentility  it  is  !  Why  did  you  give  it  me? 
I  do  not  like  you  enough  to  give  you  any  thing 
so  good. — \_To  Procter,  April  jj,  1823. '\ 


132  Cbarles  Xamb^s 

His  Garden. — I  heard  of  you  from  Mr.  Pul- 
ham  this  morning,  and  that  gave  a  fillip  to  my 
laziness,  which  has  been  intolerable  ;  but  I  am 
so  taken  up  with  pruning  and  gardening,  quite 
a  new  sort  of  occupation  to  me.  I  have  gath- 
ered my  jargonels,  but  my  Windsor  pears  are 
backward.  The  former  were  of  exquisite  raci- 
ness.  I  do  now  sit  under  my  own  vine,  and 
contemplate  the  growth  of  vegetable  nature.  I 
can  now  understand  in  what  sense  they  speak 
of  father  Adam.  I  recognize  the  paternity 
while  I  watch  my  tulips.  I  almost  fell  with 
him,  for  the  first  day  I  turned  a  drunken  gar- 
dener (as  he  let  in  the  serpent)  into  my  Eden, 
and  he  laid  about  him,  lopping  off  some  choice 
boughs,  etc.,  which  hung  over  from  a  neighbor's 
garden,  and  in  his  blind  zeal  laid  waste  a  shade, 
which  had  sheltered  their  window  from  the  gaze 
of  passers-by.  The  old  gentlewoman  (fury  made 
her  not  handsome)  could  scarcely  be  reconciled 
by  all  my  fine  words.  There  was  no  buttering 
her  parsnips.  She  talked  of  the  law.  What  a 
lapse  to  commit  on  the  first  day  of  my  happy 
"garden-state!  "—[7b  Barton^  Sept.  2,  182J.] 


ma  anD  MlsOom  133 

On  Ai^msgiving. — One  of  the  bitterest  pangs 
of  remorse  I  ever  felt  was  when  a  child — when 
my  kind  old  aunt  had  strained  her  pocket- 
strings  to  bestow  a  sixpenny  whole  plum-cake 
upon  me.  In  my  way  home  through  the  Bor- 
ough I  met  a  venerable  old  man,  not  a  mendi- 
cant, but  thereabouts :  a  look-beggar,  not  a 
verbal  petitionist ;  and  in  the  coxcombry  of 
taught  charity  I  gave  away  the  cake  to  him.  I 
walked  on  a  little  in  all  the  pride  of  an  Evan- 
gelical peacock,  when  of  a  sudden  my  old 
aunt's  kindness  crossed  me  ;  the  sum  it  was  to 
her  ;  the  pleasure  she  had  a  right  to  expect  that 
I — not  the  old  impostor — should  take  in  eating 
her  cake  ;  the  ingratitude  by  which,  under  the 
color  of  a  Christian  virtue,  I  had  frustrated  her 
cherished  purpose.  I  sobbed,  wept,  and  took  it 
to  heart  so  grievously,  that  I  think  I  never 
suffered  the  like ;  and  I  was  right.  It  was 
a  piece  of  unfeeling  hypocrisy,  and  it  proved 
a  lesson  to  me  ever  after.  The  cake  has 
long  been  masticated,  consigned  to  the 
dunghill  with  the  ashes  of  that  unseasonable 
pauper. 


134  Gbarles  Xamb's 


But  when  Providence,  who  is  better  to  us  all 

than  our  aunts,  gives  me  a  pig,  remembering 
my  temptation  and  my  fall,  I  shall  endeavor 
to  act  towards  it  more  in  the  spirit  of  the 
donor's  purpose. 

Yours  (short  of  pig)  to  command  in  every- 
thing.—[7b  Coleridge,  March  p,  i822.'\ 

I^ACK  OF  Neatness. — I  am  ashamed  of  the 
shabb}'  letters  I  send,  but  I  am  by  nature  any- 
thing but  neat.  Therein  my  mother  bore  me 
no  Quaker.  I  never  could  seal  a  letter  without 
dropping  the  wax  on  one  side,  besides  scalding 
my  fingers.  I  never  had  a  seal,  too,  of  my  own. 
Writing  to  a  great  man  lately,  who  is  moreover 
very  heraldic,  I  borrowed  a  seal  of  a  friend, 
who  by  the  female  side  quarters  the  Protec- 
torial  arms  of  Cromwell.  How  they  must  have 
puzzled  my  correspondent  !  My  letters  are 
generally  charged  as  double  at  the  Post  Office, 
from  their  inveterate  clumsiness  of  foldure  ;  so 
you  must  not  take  it  disrespectful  to  yourself  if 
I  send  you  such  ungainly  scraps.  I  think  I 
lose  ^loo  a  year  at  the  India  House,   owing 


mat  anO  mis^om  135 

solely  to  my  want  of  neatness  in  making  up 
accounts.  How  I  puzzle  'em  out  at  last  is  the 
wonder.  I  have  to  do  with  millions  ! ! — [  To 
Barton,  March  iiy  182J.] 

On  Diai^ect  in  Poetry. — In  some  of  your 
story-telling  ballads  the  provincial  phrases 
sometimes  startle  me.  I  think  you  are  too  pro- 
fuse with  them.  In  poetry  slajig  of  every  kind 
is  to  be  avoided.  There  is  a  rustick  Cockney- 
ism,  as  little  pleasing  as  ours  of  London.  Trans- 
plant Arcadia  to  Helpstone.  The  true  rustic 
style  I  think  is  to  be  found  in  Shenstone. 
Would  his  *' Schoolmistress,"  the  prettiest  of 
poems,  have  been  better  if  he  had  used  quite 
the  Goody's  own  language?  Now  and  then  a 
home  rusticism  is  fresh  and  startling ;  but  when 
nothing  is  gained  in  expression,  it  is  out  of 
tenor.  It  may  make  folks  smile  and  stare ;  but 
the  ungenial  coalition  of  barbarous  with  refined 
phrases  will  prevent  you  in  the  end  from  being 
so  generally  tasted,  as  you  desire  to  be.  Ex- 
cuse my  freedom,  and  take  the  same  liberty 
with  my pu7ts. — \^John  Clare,  Aug.  j/,  i822.'\ 


136  Cbarles  Xamb*0 

A  "Lying  Memory." — Is  it  a  fatality  in  me, 
that  everything  I  touch  turns  into  a  "lie  "  ?  I 
once  quoted  two  lines  from  a  translation  of 
Dante,  which  Hazlitt  very  greatly  admired,  and 
quoted  it  in  a  book  as  proof  of  the  stupendous 
power  of  that  poet ;  but  no  such  lines  are  to  be 
found  in  the  translation,  which  has  been 
searched  for  the  purpose.  I  must  have  dreamed 
them,  for  I  am  quite  certain  I  did  not  forge 
them  knowingly.  What  a  misfortune  to  have 
a  lying  memory  !  —  \_To  Barton,  Feb.  //, 
i823.-\ 

The  Gentile  Giantess.— Ask  anybody  you 
meet  who  is  the  biggest  woman  in  Cambridge, 
and  I  '11  hold  you  a  wager  they  '11  say  Mrs. 
Smith.  She  broke  down  two  benches  in 
Trinity  gardens,  one  on  the  confines  of  St. 
John's,  which  occasioned  a  litigation  between 
the  Societies  as  to  repairing  it.  In  warm 
weather  she  retires  into  an  ice-cellar  (literally  !) 
and  dates  the  returns  of  the  j^ears  from  a  hot 
Thursday  some  twenty  years  back.  She  sits  in 
a  room  with  opposite  doors  and  windows,  to  let 


mit  anD  MisDom  137 

in  a  thorough  draught,  which  gives  her  slen- 
derer friends  toothaches.  She  is  to  be  seen  in 
the  market  every  morning,  at  ten,  cheapening 
fowls,  which  I  observe  the  Cambridge  poulter- 
ers are  not  sufficiently  careful  to  stump. — [  To 
Miss  Woj'dsworth,  3fay  2^,  1820.  ] 

On  Using  Different  Inks.— I  will  never 
write  another  letter  with  alternate  inks.  You 
cannot  imagine  how  it  cramps  the  flow  of  the 
style.  I  can  conceive  Pindar  (I  do  not  mean 
to  compare  myself  to //zw), by  the  command  of 
Hiero,  the  Sicilian  tyrant  (was  not  he  the 
tyrant  of  some  place?  fie  on  m}-  neglect  of  his- 
tory !) — I  can  conceive  him  by  command  of 
Hiero  or  Perillus  set  down  to  pen  an  Isthmian  or 
Nemean  panegyric  in  lines,  alternate  red  and 
black.  I  maintain  he  couldn't  have  done  it  ;  it 
would  have  been  a  straight-laced  torture  to  his 
muse ;  he  would  have  call'd  for  the  bull  for  a  re- 
lief. Neither  could  Lycidas,  nor  the  Chorics  (how 
do  you  like  the  word  ?)  of  Samson  Agonistes, 
have  been  written  with  two  inks.  Your  couplets, 
with  points,  epilogues  to  Mr.  H.'s,   etc.,  might 


38  Cbarlc9  Xamb's 


be  even  benefited  by  the  twy fount,  where  one 
line  (the  second)  is  for  point,  and  the  first  for 
rhyme.  I  think  the  alteration  would  assist,  like 
a  mould.  I  maintain  it,  you  could  not  have 
written  your  stanzas  on  pre-existence  with  two 
inks.  Try  another ;  and  Rogers,  with  his  silver 
standish,  having  one  ink  only,  I  will  bet  my 
Ode  on  Tobacco,  against  the  Pleasici'cs  of 
Memory, — and  Hope,  too,  shall  put  more 
fervor  of  enthusiasm  into  the  same  subject  than 
you  can  with  your  two  ;  he  shall  do  it  stanspede 
171  uno,  as  it  were. — [7b  Wordsworth,  Jime  /, 
1819.-] 

RiCHKS. — Of  time,  health,  and  riches,  the  first 
in  order  is  not  last  in  excellence.  Riches  are 
chiefly  good  because  they  give  us  time. — \To 
Barton,  Oct.  p,  1822. '^ 

Pi,AY. — All  work  and  no  play  dulls  me. 
Company  is  not  play,  but  many  times  hard 
work.  To  play,  is  for  a  man  to  do  what  he 
pleases,  or  to  do  nothing — to  go  about  soothing 
his  particular  fancies. — To  Barton,  Dec.  23, 
1822.] 


mit  anD  misDom  139 


The  Bast  India  Company's  Ruizes.— The 

Committee  have  formally  abolished  all  holydays 
whatsoever — for  which  may  the  Devil,  who 
keeps  no  holydays,  have  them  in  his  eternal 
burning  workshop.  When  I  say  holydays,  I 
mean  Calendar  holydays,  for  at  Medley's  insti- 
gation they  have  agreed  to  a  sort  of  scale  by 
which  the  Chief  has  power  to  give  leave  of 
absence,  viz : 
Those  who  have  been  50  years  and  upwards 

to  be  absent  4  days  in  the  year,  but  not 

without  leave  of  the  Chief. 

35  years  and  upward,  3  days, 

25  years  and  upward,  2  days, 

18  years  and  upward,  i  day, 

which  I  think  very  Liberal.      We   are  also  to 

sign  our  name  when  we  go  as  well  as  when  we 

come,  and  every  quarter  of  an  hour  we  sign,  to 

show  that  we  are  here.     Mins  and  Gardner  take 

it  in  turn  to  bring  round  the  book — O  here  is 

Mins  with  the  Book — no  it's  Gardner — "What's 

that,  G.? "     "  The  appearance  book.  Sir  "  (with 

a  gentle  inclination  of  his  head,  and  smiling). 

**  What  the  devil,  is  the  quarter  come   again  ?  " 


I40  Cbarles  Xamb*5 

It  annoys  Dodwell  amazingly  ;  he  sometimes 
has  to  sign  six  or  seven  times  while  he  is  read- 
ing the  Newspaper. — \_ToJohn  Chambers jSiSJX 

Acute  Criticism  of  Byron. — It  was  quite  a 
mistake  that  I  could  dislike  anything  you 
should  write  against  Lord  Byron  ;  for  I  have  a 
thorough  aversion  to  his  character,  and  a  very 
moderate  admiration  of  his  genius:  he  is  great 
in  so  little  a  way.  To  be  a  Poet  is  to  be  the 
Man,  not  a  petty  portion  of  occasional  low 
passion  worked  up  in  a  permanent  form  of  hu- 
manity. Shakespeare  has  thrust  such  rubbish- 
ly  feelings  into  a  corner, — the  dark  dusky  heart 
of  Don  John,  in  the  Much  Ado  About  Noth- 
ing.— \_To Joseph  Cottle,  i8ig.'\ 

On  SHEI.I.EY.  — Shelley  I  saw  once.  His  voice 
was  the  most  obnoxious  squeak  I  ever  was  tor- 
mented with,  ten  thousand  times  worse  than 
the  Laureate's,  whose  voice  is  the  worst  part 
about  him,  except  his  Laureateship.  Lord  Ey- 
ron  opens  upon  him  on  Monday  in  a  parody 
(I  suppose)  of  the  Vision  of  Judgment,  in  which 
latter  the  Poet  I  think  did  not  much  show  his. 


Mit  ant)  Mi9C)om  141 


To  award  his  Heaven  and  his  Hell  in  the  pre- 
sumptuous manner  he  has  done,  was  a  piece  of 
immodesty  as  bad  as  Shelleyism. — [To  Barton, 
Oct.  g,  1822.1 

On  Never  being  Ai^one. — Evening  com- 
pany I  should  always  like  had  I  any  mornings, 
but  I  am  saturated  with  human  faces  {divine 
forsooth  !)  and  voices  all  the  golden  morning  ; 
and  five  evenings  in  a  week  would  be  as  much 
as  I  should  covet  to  be  in  company  ;  but  I  as- 
sure you  that  is  a  wonderful  week  in  which  I 
can  get  two,  or  one  to  myself.  I  am  never  C. 
L.,  but  always  C.  ly.  and  Co.  He  who  thought 
it  not  good  for  man  to  be  alone,  preserve  me 
from  the  more  prodigious  monstrosity  of  being 
never  by  myself !  I  forget  bed-time,  but  even 
there  these  sociable  frogs  clamber  up  to  annoy 
me.  Once  a  week,  generally  some  singular 
evening  that,  being  alone,  I  go  to  bed  at  the 
hour  I  ought  always  to  be  a-bed  ;  just  close  to 
my  bedroom  window  is  the  club-room  of  a  pub- 
lic-house, where  a  set  of  singers,  I  take  them 
to  be  chorus-singers  of  the  two  theatres  (it  must 


142  Cbarles  Xamb's 

be  both  of  them),  begin  their  orgies.  They  are 
a  set  of  fellows  (as  I  conceive)  who,  being  lim- 
ited by  their  talents  to  the  bnrthen  of  the  song 
at  the  play-houses,  in  revenge  have  got  the 
common  popular  airs  by  Bishop,  or  some  cheap 
composer,  arranged  for  choruses  ;  that  is  to  be 
sung  all  in  chorus.  At  least  I  never  can  catch 
any  of  the  text  of  the  plain  song,  nothing  but 
the  Babylonish  choral  howl  at  the  tail  on  't. 
"That  fury  being  quenched" — the  howl,  I 
mean — a  burden  succeeds  of  shouts  and  clap- 
ping, and  knocking  of  the  table.  At  length 
overtasked  nature  drops  under  it,  and  escapes 
for  a  few  hours  into  the  society  of  the  sweet 
silent  creatures  of  dreams,  which  go  away  with 
mocks  and  mows  at  cockcrow.  And  then  I  think 
of  the  words  Christabel's  father  used  (bless  me, 
I  have  dipt  in  the  wrong  ink  !)  to  say  every 
morning  by  way  of  variety  when  he  awoke  : 

"  Every  knell,  the  Baron  saith, 
Wakes  us  up  to  a  world  of  death." 

or  something  like  it.  All  I  mean  by  this  sense- 
less interrupted  tale  is,  that  by  central  situa- 


Wiit  anO  MtsOom  143 

tion  I  am  a   little  over-companied. — [To  Mrs. 
Wordsworth,  February  i8,  i8i8.'\ 

"Iif  Petrarch  had  been  Born  a  Fooi,." 
— Bye  is  about  publishing  a  volume  of  poems 
which  he  means  to  dedicate  to  Matthie.  Me- 
thinks  he  might  have  found  a  better  Mecaenas. 
They  are  chiefly  amatory,  others  of  them  stupid, 
the  greater  part  very  far  below  mediocrity  ;  but 
they  discover  much  tender  feeling  ;  they  are  most 
like  Petrarch  of  any  foreign  Poet,  or  what  we 
might  have  supposed  Petrarch  would  have  writ- 
ten if  Petrarch  had  been  born  a  fool  ! — [  To  John 
Chambers,  1818.'] 

Bad  Behavior  on  Soi^emn  Occasions.— But 
there  is  a  man  in  m}'  office,  a  Mr.  Hedges,  who 
proses  it  away  from  morning  to  night,  and  never 
gets  beyond  corporal  and  material  verities.  He'd 
get  these  crack-brain  metaphysics  out  of  the 
young  gentleman's  head  as  soon  as  any  one  I 
know.  When  I  can't  sleep  o'  nights,  I  imagine 
a  dialogue  with  Mr.  Hedges,  upon  any  given 
subject,  and  go  prosing  on  in  fancy  with  him, 


144  Cbarles  Xamb's 

till  I  either  laugh  or  fall  asleep.  I  have 
literally  found  it  answer.  I  am  going  to  stand 
godfather;  I  don't  like  the  business;  I 
cannot  muster  up  decorum  for  these  occa- 
sions ;  I  shall  certainly  disgrace  the  font.  I 
was  at  Hazlitt's  marriage,  and  had  like  to 
have  been  turned  out  several  times  during  the 
ceremony.  Anything  awful  makes  me  laugh. 
I  misbehaved  once  at  a  funeral.  Yet  I  can 
read  about  these  ceremonies  with  pious  and 
proper  feelings.  The  realities  of  life  only 
seem  the  mockeries. — \_To  Sout/iey,  Aicgust  9, 
1813.-] 

On  Rewef  from  Routine  Work.— If  I  do 
but  get  rid  of  auditing  warehousekeepers'  ac- 
counts and  get  no  worse-harassing  task  in  the 
place  of  it,  what  a  lord  of  liberty  I  shall  be  !  I 
shall  dance  and  skip,  and  make  mouths  at  the 
invisible  event,  and  pick  the  thorns  out  of  my 
pillow,  and  throw  'em  at  rich  men's  night-caps, 
and  talk  blank  verse,  hoity-toity,  and  sing — "A 
clerk  I  was  in  Ivondon  gay,"  "Ban,  ban,  Ca- 
Caliban,"  like  the  emancipated  monster,  and 


Timit  anD  TimiaJ)om  145 

go  where  I  like,  up  this  street  or  down  that 
alley. — [To  Wordsworth,  August  g,  18 r^.'] 

The  Charms  of  City  IvIFE. — We  are  in  the 
individual  spot  I  like  best,  in  all  this  great 
city.  The  theatres  with  all  their  noises.  Co- 
vent  Garden,  dearer  to  me  than  any  gardens  of 
Alcinous,  where  we  are  morally  certain  of  the 
earliest  peas  and  'sparagus.  Bow  street,  where 
the  thieves  are  examined,  within  a  few  yards  of 
us.  Mary  had  not  been  here  four-and-twenty 
hours  before  she  saw  a  thief.  She  sits  in  the 
window  working ;  and  casually  throwing  out 
her  eyes,  she  sees  a  concourse  of  people  coming 
this  way,  with  a  constable  to  conduct  the  so- 
lemnity. These  little  incidents  agreeably  diver- 
sify a  female  life. — [To  Miss  Wordsworth,  No- 
vember 21,  iSiy.'] 

A  Whimsicaiv   Letter   to  a  Friend   in 

China. — Dear  old  Friend  and  absentee — This 
is  Christmas  Day  1S15  with  us  ;  what  it  may  be 
with  you  I  don't  know,  the  12th  of  June  next 
year  perhaps  ;  and  if  it  should  be  the  conse- 


146  Cbarles  Xamb'e 

crated  season  with  you,  I  don't  see  how  you  can 
keep  it.  You  have  no  turkeys  ;  you  would  not 
desecrate  the  festival  by  offering  up  a  withered 
Chinese  bantam,  instead  of  the  savory  grand 
Norfolcian  holocaust,  that  smokes  all  around 
my  nostrils  at  this  moment  from  a  thousand 
firesides.  Then  what  puddings  have  you  ? 
Where  will  you  get  holly  to  stick  in  your 
churches,  or  churches  to  stick  your  dried  tea- 
leaves  (that  must  be  the  substitute)  in  ?  What 
memorials  you  can  have  of  the  holy  time,  I  see 
not.  A  chopped  missionary  or  two  may  keep 
up  the  thin  idea  of  lycnt  and  the  wilderness  ; 
but  what  standing  evidence  have  you  of  the 
Nativity  ?  'T  is  our  rosy-cheeked,  homestalled 
divines,  whose  faces  shine  to  the  tune  of  "  Unto 
us  a  child  is  born,"  faces  fragrant  with  the 
mince-pies  of  half  a  century,  that  alone  can 
authenticate  the  cheerful  mystery.  I  feel  my 
bowels  refreshed  with  the  holy  tide  ;  my  zeal  is 
great  against  the  unedifled  heathen.  Down 
with  the  Pagodas — down  with  the  idols — Ching- 
chong-fo — and  his  foolish  priesthood  !  Come 
out  of  Babylon,  O  my  friend  !  for  her  time  is 


limit  anO  misDom  147 


come ;  and  the  child  that  is  native,  and  the 
Proselyte  of  her  gates,  shall  kindle  and  smoke 
together  !  And  in  sober  sense  what  makes  you 
so  long  from  among  us,  Manning  ?  You  must 
not  expect  to  see  the  same  England  again  which 
you  left. 

Empires  have  been  overturned,  crowns  trod- 
den into  dust,  the  face  of  the  western  world 
quite  changed.  Your  friends  have  all  got  old — 
those  you  left  blooming  ;  myself  (who  am  one  of 
the  few  that  remember  you),  those  golden  hairs 
which  you  recollect  my  taking  a  pride  in, 
turned  to  silvery  and  gray.  INIary  has  been 
dead  and  buried  many  years  :  she  desired  to  be 
buried  in  the  silk  gown  you  sent  her.  Rick- 
man  that  you  remember  active  and  strong,  now 
walks  out  supported  by  a  servant  maid  and  a 
stick.  Martin  Burney  is  a  very  old  man.  The 
other  day  an  aged  woman  knocked  at  my  door, 
and  pretended  to  my  acquaintance.  It  was  long 
before  I  had  the  most  distant  cognition  of  her ; 
but  at  last,  together,  we  made  her  out  to  be 
Louisa,  the  daughter  of  Mrs.  Topham,  formerly 
Mrs.   Morton,  who   had  been   Mrs.   Reynolds, 


148  Cbarles  Hamb's 


formerly  Mrs.  Kenney,  whose  first  husband  was 
Holcroft,  the  dramatic  writer  of  the  last  century. 
St.  Paul's  Church  is  a  heap  of  ruins  ;  the  Monu- 
ment is  n't  half  so  high  as  you  knew  it,  divers 
parts  being  successively  taken  down  which  the 
ravages  of  time  had  rendered  dangerous ;  the 
horse  at  Charing  Cross  is  gone,  no  one  knows 
whither ;  and  all  this  has  taken  place  while 
you  have  been  settling  whether  Ho-hing-tong 

should  be  spelt  with   a ,  or   a .     For 

aught  I  see  you  might  almost  as  well  remain 
where  you  are,  and  not  come  like  a  Struldbrug 
into  a  world  where  few  were  bom  when  you 
went  away.  Scarce  here  and  there  one  will  be 
able  to  make  out  your  face.  All  your  opinions 
will  be  out  of  date,  your  jokes  obsolete,  your 
puns  rejected  with  fastidiousness  as  wit  of  the 
last  age.  Your  way  of  mathematics  has  already 
given  way  to  a  new  method,  which  after  all  is  I 
believe  the  old  doctrine  of  Maclaurin,  new- 
vampcd  up  with  what  he  borrowed  of  the  nega- 
tive quantity  of  fluxions  from  Euler. 

Poor  Godwin  !     I  was  passing  his  tomb  the 
other  day  in  Cripplegate   churchyard.     There 


mtt  mt>  UlisDom  149 

are  some  verses  upon  it  written  by  Miss , 

which  if  I  thought  good  enough  I  would  send 
you.  He  was  one  of  them  who  would  have 
hailed  your  return,  not  with  boisterous  shouts 
and  clamors,  but  with  the  complacent  gratu- 
lations  of  a  philosopher  anxious  to  promote 
knowledge  as  leading  to  happiness  ;  but  his 
systems  and  his  theories  are  ten  feet  deep  in 
Cripplegate  mould.  Coleridge  is  just  dead, 
having  lived  just  long  enough  to  close  the  eyes 
of  Wordsworth,  who  paid  the  debt  to  nature  but 
a  week  or  two  before.  Poor  Col.,  but  two  days 
before  he  died  he  wrote  to  a  bookseller,  propos- 
ing an  epic  poem  on  the  Wanderings  of  Cain, 
in  twenty-four  books.  It  is  said  he  has  left  be- 
hind him  more  than  forty  thousand  treatises  in 
criticism,  metaphysics,  and  divinity,  but  few  of 
them  in  a  state  of  completion.  They  are  now 
destined,  perhaps,  to  wrap  up  spices.  You  see 
what  mutations  the  busy  hand  of  Time  has  pro- 
duced, while  you  have  consumed  in  foolish 
voluntary  exile  that  time  which  might  have 
gladdened  your  friends — benefited  your  coun- 
try ;  but  reproaches  are  useless.    Gather  up  the 


I50  Cbarles  Xamb's 

■wretched  reliques,  my  friend,  as  fast  as  you  can, 
and  come  to  your  old  home.  I  will  rub  my  eyes 
and  try  to  recognize  you.  We  will  shake  with- 
ered hands  together,  and  talk  of  old  things — 
.  .  .  I  suppose  you  heard  that  I  had  left  the 
India  House  and  gone  into  the  Fishmongers' 
Almshouses  over  the  bridge  :  I  have  a  little 
cabin  there,  small  and  homely,  but  you  shall  be 
welcome  to  it.  —  [To  Maiming;  December  25, 
1815.1 

An  Obituary  Pokt.— Ditton-upon-Thames 
has  been  blessed  by  the  residence  of  a  poet,  who 
for  love  or  money — I  do  not  well  know  which — 
has  dignified  every  gravestone,  for  the  last  few 
years,  with  bran-new  verses,  all  different,  and 
all  ingenious,  with  the  author's  name  at  the 
bottom  of  each.  This  sweet  Swan  of  Thames 
has  so  artfully  diversified  his  strains  and  his 
rhymes,  that  the  same  thought  never  occurs 
twice ;  more  justly,  perhaps,  as  no  thought 
ever  occurs  at  all,  there  was  a  physical  impossi- 
bility that  the  same  thought  should  recur. — 
\To  Wordsworth,  October  jg,  /8/0.] 


mix  anD  1KIlf6C»om  151 


Mary's  First  Joke.— What 's  the  use  of  tell- 
ing you  what  good  things  you  have  written,  or 
— I  hope  I  may  add — that  I  know  them  to  be 
good  ?  Apropos — when  I  first  opened  upon  the 
just  mentioned  poem,  in  a  careless  tone,  I  said 
to  Mary,  as  if  putting  a  riddle,  "  What  is  good 
for  a  bootless  be7ie  f  "  To  which,  with  infinite 
presence  of  mind  (as  the  jest-book  has  it),  she 
answered,  "  a  shoeless  pea."  It  was  the  first 
joke  she  ever  made. — \^To  Wordsworth,  iSij.'] 

Borrowers  of  Books. —  I  have  not  bound 
the  poems  yet.  I  wait  till  people  have  done 
borrowing  them.  I  think  I  shall  get  a  chain 
and  chain  them  to  my  shelves,  more  Bodleiano, 
and  people  may  come  and  read  them  at  chain's 
length.  For  of  those  who  borrow,  some  read 
slow  ;  some  mean  to  read  but  don't  read  ;  and 
some  neither  read  nor  meant  to  read,  but  bor- 
row to  leave  you  an  opinion  of  their  sagacity. 
I  must  do  my  money -borrowing  friends  the 
justice  to  say  that  there  is  nothing  of  this 
caprice  or  wantonness  of  alienation  in  them. 
When  they  borrow  my  money  they  never  fail 


152  Cbarles  Xamb's 

to  make  use  of  it. — [  To  Wordsworth,  April  p, 
1816.I 

On  His  Own  Library. — When  I  last  wrote 
to  you  I  was  in  lodgings.  I  am  now  in  Cham- 
bers, No.  4,  Inner  Temple  Lane,  where  I  should 
be  happy  to  see  you  any  evening.  Bring  any 
of  your  friends,  the  mandarins,  with  you.  I 
have  two  sitting-rooms  ;  I  call  them  so  par 
excelleiice  for  you  may  stand,  or  loll,  or  lean, 
or  try  any  posture  in  them,  but  they  are  best 
for  sitting  ;  not  squatting  down  Japanese  fash- 
ion, but  the  more  decorous   use   of   the  

which  European  usage  has  consecrated.  I  have 
two  of  these  rooms  on  the  third  floor,  and  five 
sleeping,  cooking,  etc.,  rooms,  on  the  fourth 
floor.  In  my  best  room  is  a  choice  collection 
of  the  works  of  Hogarth,  an  English  painter  of 
some  humor.  In  my  next  best  are  shelves 
containing  a  small  but  well-chosen  library. 
My  best  room  commands  a  court,  in  which 
there  are  trees  and  a  pump,  the  water  of  which 
is  excellent  cold,  with  brandy,  and  not  very 
insipid  without.     Here  I  hope   to  set  up   my 


mat  anD  'UmisDom  153 

rest,  and  not  quit,  till  Mr.  Powell,  the  under- 
taker, gives  me  notice  that  I  may  have  posses- 
sion of  my  last  lodging.  He  lets  lodgings  for 
single  gentlemen. — [  To  Manni7ig,  January  2, 
1810.1 

Puns  and  Punch. — Puns  I  have  not  made 
many  (nor  punch  much)  since  the  date  of  my 
last ;  one  I  cannot  help  relating.  A  constable 
in  Salisbury  Cathedral  was  telling  me  that 
eight  people  dined  at  the  top  of  the  spire  of 
the  cathedral  ;  upon  which  I  remarked,  that 
they  must  be  very  sharp  set.  But  in  general 
I  cultivate  the  reasoning  part  of  my  mind  more 
than  the  imaginative. — \To  Manning ,  January 
2,  1810.1 

On  the;  Discomforts  of  Moving.— What  a 
dislocation  of  comfort  is  comprised  in  that 
word  "moving  !  "  Such  a  heap  of  little  nasty 
things,  after  you  think  all  is  got  into  the  cart : 
old  dredging-boxes,  worn-out  brushes,  gallipots, 
vials,  things  that  it  is  impossible  the  most  ne- 
cessitous person  can  ever  want,  but  which  the 


154  CbarlcB  Xamb'a 

women,  who  preside  on  these  occasions,  will 
not  leave  behind  if  it  was  to  save  your  soul. 
They  'd  keep  the  cart  ten  minutes  to  stow  in 
dirty  pipes  and  broken  matches,  to  show  their 
economy.  Then  you  can  find  nothing  you  want 
for  many  days  after  you  get  into  your  new 
lodgings.  You  must  comb  your  hair  with  your 
fingers,  wash  your  hands  without  soap,  go 
about  in  dirty  gaiters.  Were  I  Diogenes  I 
would  not  move  out  of  a  kilderkin  into  a  hogs- 
head, though  the  first  had  had  nothing  but 
small  beer  in  it,  and  the  second  reeked  claret. 
Our  place  of  final  destination — I  don't  mean 
the  grave,  but  No.  4,  Inner  Temple  Lane — 
looks  out  upon  a  gloomy  churchyard-like  court, 
called  Hare  Court,  with  three  trees  and  a  pump 
in  it.  Do  you  know  it  ?  I  was  born  near  it,  and 
used  to  drink  at  that  pump  when  I  was  a 
Rechabite  of  six  years  old.  —  [To  Manning; 
March  28,  /5op.] 

CcEivEBS  IN  Search  of  a  Wife. — Have  you 
read  Coelebs  ?  It  has  reached  eight  editions  in 
so  many  weeks,  yet  literally  it  is  one  of  the 


mit  an&  MisDom  155 


very  poorest  sort  of  common  novels,  -witli  the 
drawback  of  dull  religion  in  it.  Had  the  reli- 
gion been  high  and  flavored,  it  would  have 
been  something.  I  borrowed  this  Ccelebs  in 
Search  of  a  Wife^  of  a  very  careful,  neat  lad}^, 
and  returned  it  with  this  stuff  written  in  the 
beginning : — 


"  If  ever  I  marry  a  wife 

I  '11  marry  a  landlord's  daughter, 
For  then  I  may  sit  in  the  bar, 
And  drink  cold  brandy  and  water. 

—\_To  Coleridge,  June  y,  iSop.'] 


Thf<  End  of  a  Letter. — Mary  has  left  a 
little  space  for  me  to  fill  up  with  nonsense, 
as  the  geographers  used  to  cram  monsters  in 
the  voids  of  the  maps,  and  call  it  Terra  Incog- 
nita.— \To  Miss  Wordsworth,  August,  1810.'] 

An  Unaccustomed  Author. — Mr.  Dawe  is 
turned  author ;  he  has  been  in  such  a  way 
lately — Dawe,  the  painter,  I  mean — he  sits  and 
stands  about  at  Holcroft's   and  says  nothing ; 


156  Cbarlcs  Xamb's 

then  sighs  and  leans  his  head  on  his  hand.  I 
took  him  to  be  in  love ;  but  it  seems  he 
was  only  meditating  a  work, —  The  Life  of 
Morland.  The  young  man  is  not  used  to 
composition. — \^To  Manning,  Dec.  5,  iSoST^ 

Hook  and  I  grinned  like  a  Cheshire  cat. 
(Why  do  cats  grin  in  Cheshire  ? — Because  it  was 
once  a  country  palatine,  and  the  cats  cannot 
help  laughing  whenever  they  think  of  it,  though 
I  see  no  great  joke  in  it.)  I  said  that  Holcroft, 
on  being  asked  who  were  the  best  dramatic 
writers  of  the  day,  replied,  "Hook  and  I." 
Mr.  Hook  is  author  of  several  pieces,  Tekeli,  etc. 
You  know  what  hooks  and  eyes  are,  don't  you? 
They  are  what  little  boys  do  up  their  breeches 
with. — \To  Mantling,  February  26,  1808.'] 

On  Pubwc  Reading-Rooms. — I  think  public 
reading-rooms  the  best  mode  of  educating  young 
men.  Solitary  reading  is  apt  to  give  the  head- 
ache. Besides,  who  knows  that  you  do  read  ? 
There  are  ten  thousand  institutions  similar  to 
the  Royal  Institution   which  have   sprung  up 


mit  and  misDont  157 

from  it.  There  is  the  London  Institution,  the 
South wark  Institution,  the  Russell  vSquare 
Rooms  Institution,  etc.  —  College  quasi  Con- 
lege,  a  place  where  people  read  together. — \_To 
Manning,  February  26,  1808. '] 

Wordsworth  and  Shakespeare:. — Words- 
worth, the  great  poet,  is  coming  to  town  ;  he 
is  to  have  apartments  in  the  IMansion  House. 
He  says  he  does  not  see  much  difficulty  in  writ- 
ing like  Shakespeare,  if  he  had  a  mind  to  try  it. 
It  is  clear  that  nothing  is  wanting  but  the  mind. 
Even  Coleridge  was  a  little  checked  at  this 
hardihood  of  assertion. — [  To  Manning^  Feb- 
ruary 2(5,  iSoS^l 

A    Woman-HaTER. — Mrs. grows  every 

day  in  disfavor  with  me.  I  wall  be  buried  with 
this  inscription  over  me  : — "  Here  lies  C.  L., 
the  woman  hater":  I  mean  that  hated  one 
woman:  for  the  rest,  God  bless  them! — [7<7 
Manning,  March  28,  i8og.] 

On  WiIvIvIam  Hazi^iTT. — Wm.  Hazlitt  is  in 
town.   I  took  him  to  see  a  very  pretty  girl,  profes- 


158  Cbarles  Xante's 

sedly,  where  there  were  two  young  girls  (the 
very  head  and  sum  of  the  girlery  was  two 
young  girls);  they  neither  laughed,  nor  sneered, 
nor  giggled,  nor  whispered — but  they  were 
young  girls — and  he  sat  and  frowned  blacker 
and  blacker,  indignant  that  there  should  be 
such  a  thing  as  youth  and  beauty,  till  he  tore 
me  away  before  supper,  in  perfect  misery,  and 
owned  he  could  not  bear  young  girls ;  they 
drove  him  mad.  vSo  I  took  him  home  to  my 
old  nurse,  where  he  recovered  perfect  tran- 
quillity. Independent  of  this,  and  as  I  am  not 
a  young  girl  myself,  he  is  a  great  acquisition 
to  us.  He  is,  rather  imprudently  I  think,  print- 
ing a  political  pamphlet  on  his  own  account, 
and  will  have  to  pay  for  the  paper,  etc.  The 
first  duty  of  an  author,  I  take  it,  is  never  to  pay 
anything.  But  non  cuivis  cofitigit  adire  Cor- 
intJium.  The  managers,  I  thank  my  stars, 
have  settled  that  question  for  me. — \_To  Words- 
zvorthyjime  26,  iSo^.l 

NocTURNAi.  Visitors.— iV^.  ^.— Have  taken 
a   room   at   three   shillings   a   week,   to   be  in 


TlClft  mt>  limisOom  159 


between  five  and  eight  at  night,  to  avoid  my 
nodurjial  2X\2i^  knock-eternal ^  visitors.  The  first- 
fruits  of  my  retirement  has  been  a  farce,  which 
goes  to  manager  to-morrow.  Wish  my  ticket 
luck.  God  bless  you  ;  and  do  write. — Yours, 
fumosissimus,  C.  Lamb. 

— [7(7  William  Hazlitt,  February  ig,  1806.] 

To  A  Friend  in  Paris. — Is  any  night-walk 
comparable  to  a  walk  from  St.  Paul's  to  Char- 
ing Cross,  for  lighting  and  paving,  crowds  go- 
ing and  coming  without  respite,  the  rattle  of 
coaches,  and  the  cheerfulness  of  shops  ?  Have 
you  seen  a  man  guillotined  yet  ?  It  is  as 
good  as  hanging  ?  Are  the  women  all  painted, 
and  the  men  all  monkeys?  or  are  there  not 
a  /ew  that  look  like  rational  of  both  sexes  ? 
— [7b  Manning,  February,  i8o3.'\ 

An  Addition  to  the  Litany.— Oh,  that  I 
had  the  rectifying  of  the  lyitany  !  I  would 
put  in  a  libera  nos  (Scriptores  videlicet)  ab 
amicis  !  That's  all  the  news. — yPo  Blajining, 
February,  iSoj.'] 


i6o  Cbarles  Xamb's 


Language  Not  the:  Oni.y  Means  of  Hu- 
man Intercourse.— Your  letter  was  just  what 
a  letter  should  be,  crammed,  and  very  funny. 
Every  part  of  it*  pleased  me  till  you  came  to 
Paris  ;  then  your  philosophical  indolence,  or 
indifference,  stung  me.  You  cannot  stir  from 
3'our  rooms  till  you  know  the  language  !  What 
the  devil ! — are  men  nothing  but  w-ord-trum- 
pets?  Are  men  all  tongue  and  ear?  Have 
these  creatures,  that  5-ou  and  I  profess  to  know 
something  about,  no  faces,  gestures,  gabble,  no 
folly,  no  absurdity,  no  induction  of  French  edu- 
cation upon  the  abstract  idea  of  men  and 
woman,  no  similitude  nor  dissimilitude  to  Eng- 
lish !  Wh}-,  thou  cursed  Smellfungus  !  3-our  ac- 
count ofyourlanding  and  reception,  and  Bullen, 
(I  forget  how  3'ou  spell  it,  it  was  spelt  my  way 
in  Harry  the  Eighth's  time),  was  exactly  in 
that  minute  style  which  strong  impressions  IN- 
SPIRE (writing  to  a  Frenchman,  I  write  as  a 
Frenchman  would).  It  appears  to  me  as  if  I 
should  die  with  joy  at  the  first  landing 
in  a  foreign  coimtry. — \_To Matming,  February, 
180J.] 


Wiit  m\^  'OmisDom  i6i 

A  Visit  to  Coi<eridge.— And  my  final  re- 
solve was,  a  tour  to  the  Lakes.  I  set  out  with 
Mary  to  Keswick,  without  giving  Coleridge  any 
notice,  for  my  time,  being  precious,  did  not 
admit  of  it.  He  received  us  with  all  the  hospi- 
tality in  the  world,  and  gave  up  his  time  to 
show  us  all  the  wonders  of  the  country.  He 
dwells  upon  a  small  hill  by  the  side  of  Kes- 
wick, in  a  comfortable  house,  quite  enveloped 
on  all  sides  by  a  net  of  mountains  :  great  flound- 
ering bears  and  monsters  they  seemed,  all  couch- 
ant  and  asleep.  We  got  in  in  the  evening,  trav- 
elling in  a  post-chaise  from  Penrith,  in  the 
midst  of  a  gorgeous  sunset,  which  transmuted 
all  the  mountains  into  colors,  purple,  etc.,  etc. 
We  thought  we  had  got  into  fairyland.  But 
that  went  off  (and  it  never  came  again  ;  while  we 
stayed  v/e  had  no  more  fine  sunsets),  and  we 
entered  Coleridge's  comfortable  study  just  in 
the  dusk,  when  the  mountains  were  all  dark, 
with  clouds  upon  their  heads.  Such  an  im- 
pression I  never  received  from  objects  of  sight 
before,    nor   do   I   suppose   I   can   ever   again. 

Glorious  creatures,  fine  old  fellows,  Skiddaw, 
II 


i62  Cbarlee  Xamb's 


etc.  I  never  shall  forget  ye,  how  ye  lay  about 
that  night,  like  an  intrenchment ;  gone  to  bed, 
as  it  seemed  for  the  night,  but  promising  that 
ye  were  to  be  seen  in  the  morning.  Coleridge 
had  got  a  blazing  fire  in  his  study  ;  which  is 
a  large  antique,  ill-shaped  room,  with  an  old- 
fashioned  organ,  never  played  upon,  big  enough 
for  a  church,  shelves  of  scattered  folios,  an 
J^olian  harp,  and  an  old  sofa,  half  bed,  etc. 
And  all  looking  out  upon  the  last  fading  view 
of  Skiddaw,  and  his  broad-breasted  brethren : 
what  a  night !  Here  we  staj^ed  three  full  weeks, 
in  which  time  I  visited  Wordsworth's  cottage, 
where  we  stayed  a  day  or  two  with  the  Clark- 
sons  (good  people,  and  most  hospitable,  at 
whose  house  we  tarried  one  day  and  night),  and 
saw  Llo3'd.  The  Wordsworths  were  gone  to 
Calais. — [7b  Mannhig,  September  2^^  1802.'] 

Frenchmen  and  Engi^ishmen.— What  you 
assert  concerning  the  actors  of  Paris,  that  they 
exceed  our  comedians,  bad  as  ours  are,  is  un- 
possible.  In  one  sense  it  may  be  true,  that 
their  fine  gentlemen,  in  what  is  called  genteel 


mit  anD  limisOom  163 

comedy,  may  possibly  be  more  brisk  and  dkgagb 
than  Mr.  Caulfield,  or  Mr.  Whitfield ;  but  have 
any  of  them  the  power  to  move  laughter  in  ex- 
cess? or  can  a  Frenchman  laugh?  Can  they 
batter  at  your  judicious  ribs  till  they  shake, 
nothing  loth  to  be  so  shaken  ?  This  is  John 
Bull's  criterion,  and  it  shall  be  mine.  You  are 
Frenchified.  Both  your  tastes  and  morals  are 
corrupt  and  preverted.  By  and  by  you  will 
come  to  assert  that  Buonaparte  is  as  great  a 
general  as  the  old  Duke  of  Cumberland,  and 
deny  that  one  Bnglishman  can  beat  three 
Frenchmen.  Read  Henry  the  Fifth  to  restore 
your  orthodoxy. — \To  Manning^  April  ^j, 
iS03.-\ 

Skiddaw  and  the  Tourists.— We  have 
clambered  up  to  the  top  of  Skiddaw,  and  I  have 
waded  up  the  bed  of  Lodore.  In  fine,  I 
have  satisfied  myself  that  there  is  such  a  thing 
as  that  which  tourists  call  romantic,  which  I 
very  much  suspected  before  :  they  make  such  a 
spluttering  about  it,  and  toss  their  splendid 
epithets  around  them,  till  they  give  as  dim  a 


i64  Cbarles  Xamb's 

light  as  at  four  o'clock  next  morning  the  lamps 

do  after  an  illumination.  Mary  was  excessively 
tired  when  she  got  about  half-way  up  Skiddaw, 
but  we  came  to  a  cold  rill  (than  which  nothing 
can  be  imagined  more  cold,  running  over  cold 
stones),  and  wnth  the  reinforcement  of  a  draught 
of  cold  water  she  surmounted  it  most  manfully. 
Oh,  its  fine  black  head,  and  the  bleak  air  atop 
of  it,  with  a  prospect  of  mountains  all  about  and 
about,  making  you  giddy  ;  and  then  Scotland 
afar  off,  and  the  border  countries  so  famous  in 
song  and  ballad  !  It  was  a  day  that  will  stand 
out,  like  a  mountain,  I  am  sure,  in  my  life.  But 
I  am  returned  (I  have  now  been  come  home 
near  three  weeks  ;  I  was  a  month  out),  and  you 
cannot  conceive  the  degradation  I  felt  at  first, 
from  being  accustomed  to  wander  free  as  air 
among  mountains,  and  bathe  in  rivers  without 
being  controlled  by  any  one,  to  come  home  and 
zuork.  I  felt  very  little.  I  had  been  dreaming 
I  was  a  very  great  man.  But  that  is  going  oflf, 
and  I  find  I  shall  conform  in  time  to  that  state 
of  life  to  which  it  has  pleased  God  to  call  me. 
Besides,  after  all    Fleet  Street  and  the  Strand 


mit  ant)  misDom  165 


are  better  places  to  live  in  for  good  and  all  than 
amidst  Skiddaw.  Still,  I  turn  back  to  those 
great  places  where  I  wandered  about,  partici- 
pating in  their  greatness.  After  all,  I  could 
not  live  in  Skiddaw.  I  could  spend  a  year, 
two,  three  years  among  them,  but  I  must  have 
a  prospect  of  seeing  Fleet  Street  at  the  end  of 
that  time,  or  I  should  mope  and  pine  away,  I 
know.  Still,  Skiddaw  is  a  fine  creature. — [7b 
Manning,  September  24,  1802.'] 

On  Smoking. — What  do  you  think  of  smok- 
ing? I  want  your  sober,  average,  noon  opinion 
of  it.  I  generally  am  eating  my  dinner  about 
the  time  I  should  determine  it. 

Morning  is  a  girl,  and  can't  smoke — she  's 
no  evidence  one  way  or  the  other ;  and 
Night  is  so  evidently  bought  over,  that  he 
can't  be  a  very  upright  judge.  May  be 
the  truth  is,  that  one  pipe  is  wholesome,  two 
pipes  toothsome,  three  pipes  noisome,  four 
pipes  fulsome,  five  pipes  quarrelsome,  and 
that  's  the  snm  on  't.  But  that  is  deciding 
rather  upon  rhyme  than  reason.     .     .     .    After 


i66  Cbarlea  Xamb's 


all,  our  instincts  way  be  best. — [7b  Coleridge^ 

April  2j,  iSoj.l 

lyOVE  OF  London.—  ...  I  don't  mucb  care 
if  I  never  see  a  mountain  in  my  life.  I  have 
passed  all  my  days  in  London,  until  I  have 
formed  as  many  and  intense  local  attachments 
as  any  of  you  mountaineers  can  have  done  with 
dead  Nature.  The  lighted  shops  of  the  Strand 
and  Fleet  Street ;  the  innumerable  trades,  trades- 
men, and  customers,  coaches,  wagons,  play- 
houses ;  all  the  bustle  and  wickedness  round 
about  Coven t  Garden  ;  the  very  women  of  the 
Town  ;  the  watchmen,  drunken  scenes,  rattles  ; 
life  awake,  if  5'ou  awake,  at  all  hours  of  the 
night ;  the  very  impossibility  of  being  dull  in 
Fleet  Street ;  the  crowds,  the  very  dirt  and  mud, 
the  sun  shining  upon  houses  and  pavements, 
the  print-shops,  the  old  book-stalls,  parsons, 
cheapening  books,  coffee-houses,  steams  of 
soups  from  kitchens,  the  pantomimes — London 
itself  a  pantomime  and  a  masquerade— all  these 
things  work  themselves  into  my  mind  and  feed 
me,    without   a    power   of   satiating  me.     The 


limit  mt>  Misboin  167 

wonder  of  these  sights  impels  me  into  night- 
walks  about  her  crowded  streets,  and  I  often 
shed  tears  in  the  motley  Strand  from  fulness  of 
joy  at  so  much  life.  All  these  emotions  must 
be  strange  to  you ;  so  are  your  rural  emotions 
to  me.  But  consider,  what  must  I  have  been 
doing  all  my  life,  not  to  have  lent  great  portions 
of  my  heart  with  usury  to  such  scenes  ? 

My  attachments  are  all  local,  purely  local. 
I  have  no  passion  (or  have  had  none  since  I  was 
in  love,  and  then  it  was  the  spurious  engender- 
ing of  poetry  and  books)  for  groves  and  valleys. 
The  rooms  where  I  was  born,  the  furniture 
which  has  been  before  my  eyes  all  my  life,  a 
book-case  which  has  followed  me  about  like  a 
faithful  dog  (only  exceeding  him  in  knov.dedge), 
wherever  I  have  moved,  old  chairs,  old  tables, 
streets,  squares,  where  I  have  sunned  myself, 
my  old  school, — these  are  my  mistresses.  Have 
I  not  enough  without  your  mountains  ?  I  do 
not  envy  you. — [  To  Wordsworth^  Jan.  jo,  1801.'] 

lyAMB's  Idea  of  Constancy. — Poor  Sam. 
I^e  Grice  !     I    am    afraid   the  world,    and  the 


i68  Cbarlee  Xamb's 

camp,  and  the  university,  have  spoilt  him 
among  them.  'T  is  certain  he  had  at  one  time 
a  strong  capacity  for  turning  out  something 
better.  I  knew  him,  and  that  not  long  since, 
when  he  had  a  most  warm  heart.  I  am 
ashamed  of  the  indifference  I  have  sometimes 
felt  towards  him.  I  think  the  devil  is  in  one's 
heart.  I  am  under  obligations  to  that  man  for 
the  warmest  friendship,  and  heartiest  sympa- 
thy exprest  both  by  word  and  deed  and  tears 
for  me,  when  I  was  in  my  greatest  distress. 
But  I  have  forgot  that !  as,  I  fear,  he  has  nigh 
forgot  the  awful  scenes  which  were  before  his 
eyes  when  he  served  the  office  of  a  comforter 
to  me.  No  servdce  was  too  mean  or  trouble- 
some for  him  to  perform.  I  can't  think  what 
but  the  devil,  "that  old  spider,"  could  have 
suck'd  my  heart  so  dry  of  its  sense  of  all  grati- 
tude. If  he  does  come  in  your  way,  Southey, 
fail  not  to  tell  him  that  I  retain  a  most  affec- 
tionate remembrance  of  his  old  friendliness, 
and  an  earnest  wish  to  resume  our  intercourse. 
In  this  I  am  serious.  I  cannot  recommend  him 
to  your  society,  because  I  am  afraid  whether  he 


Wit  auD  Mis&om  169 

be  quite  worthy  of  it  ;  but  I  liave  no  right  to 
dismiss  him  from  my  regard.  He  was  at  one 
time,  and  in  the  worst  of  times,  my  own  famil- 
iar friend,  and  great  comfort  to  me  then.  I  have 
known  him  to  play  at  cards  with  my  father, 
meal-times  excepted,  literally  all  day  long,  in 
long  days  too,  to  save  me  from  being  teased  by 
the  old  man,  when  I  was  not  able  to  bear  it. 

God  bless  him  for  it,  and  God  bless  you, 
Southey. — {To  Southey,  March  20,  /7pp.'\ 

Reviewing  Books. — As  to  reviewing,  in  par- 
ticular, my  head  is  so  whimsical  a  head,  that  I 
cannot,  after  reading  another  man's  book,  let  it 
have  been  never  so  pleasing,  give  an  account 
of  it  in  any  methodical  way.  I  cannot  follow 
his  train.  Something  like  this  you  must  have 
perceived  of  me  in  conversation.  Ten  thou- 
sand times  I  have  confessed  to  you,  talking  of 
my  talents,  my  utter  inability  to  remember  in 
any  comprehensive  v^'ay  what  I  read.  I  can 
vehemently  applaud,  or  perversely  stickle,  at 
parts ;  but  I  cannot  grasp  at  a  whole.  This 
infirmity  (which  is  nothing  to  brag  of)  may  be 


170  Cbarles  Xamb*6 


vseen  :n  my  two  little  compositions,  the  tale  and 
my  play,  in  both  which  no  reader,  however  par- 
tial, can  find  any  story. — \_To  Godwin,  Novem- 
ber JO,  i8oj.'\ 

A  PoETiCAi,  Project. — I  love  this  sort  of 
poems  that  open  a  new  intercourse  with  the 
most  despised  of  the  animal  and  insect  race.  I 
think  this  vein  may  be  farther  opened.  Peter 
Pindar  hath  very  prettily  apostrophized  a  fly  ; 
Burns  hath  his  mouse  and  his  louse  ;  Coleridge 
less  successfully  hath  made  overtures  of  intimacy 
to  a  jackass,  therein  only  following  at  unresemb- 
ling  distance,  Sterne,  and  greater  Cervantes. 
Besides  these,  I  know  of  no  other  examples  of 
breaking  down  the  partition  between  us  and 
our  "poor  earth-born  companions."  It  is 
sometimes  revolting  to  be  put  in  a  track  of 
feeling  by  other  people,  not  one's  own  imme- 
diate thoughts,  else  I  would  persuade  you,  if  I 
could  (I  am  in  earnest),  to  commence  a  series 
of  animals'  poems,  which  might  have  a  ten- 
dency to  rescue  some  poor  creatures  from  the 
antipathy  of  mankind.     Some  thoughts  come 


mit  mt>  *Mi6t)om  171 

across  me  :  for  instance — to  a  rat,  to  a  toad,  to 
a  cockchafer,  to  a  mole.  People  bake  moles 
alive  by  a  slow  oven  fire  to  cure  consumption. 
Rats  are,  indeed,  the  most  despised  and  con- 
temptible parts  of  God's  earth.  I  killed  a  rat 
the  other  day  by  punching  him  to  pieces,  and 
feel  a  weight  of  blood  upon  me  to  this  hour. 
Toads  you  know  are  made  to  fly,  and  tumble 
down  and  crush  all  to  pieces.  Cockchafers  are 
old  sport.  Then  again,  to  a  worm,  with  an 
apostrophe  to  anglers,  those  patient  tyrants, 
meek  inflictors  of  pangs  intolerable,  cool 
devils  ;  to  an  owl ;  to  all  snakes,  with  an  apol- 
ogy for  their  poison  ;  to  a  cat  in  boots  or 
bladders.  Your  own  fancy,  if  it  takes  a  fancy 
to  these  hints,  will  suggest  many  more.  A 
series  of  such  poems,  supposed  to  be  accompa- 
nied with  plates  descriptive  of  animal  torments, 
cooks  roasting  lobsters,  fishmongers  crimping 
skates,  etc.,  etc.,  would  take  excessively.  I 
willingly  enter  into  a  partnership  in  the  plan 
with  you  ;  I  think  my  heart  and  soul  would  go 
with  it  too — at  least,  give  it  a  thought.  My  plan 
is  but  this  minute  come  into  my  head ;   but  it 


172  Cbatlea  Xamb^s 

strikes  me  instantaneously  as  something  new, 
good,  and  useful,  full  of  pleasure,  and  full  of 
moral.  If  old  Quarles  and  Wither  could  live 
again,  we  would  invite  them  into  our  firm. 
Burns  hath  done  his  part. —  [  To  Southey, 
March  20,  lypp.] 

A  Visit  to  an  Authoress.— You  blame  us 
for  giving  your  direction  to  Miss  Wesley.  The 
woman  has  been  ten  times  after  us  about  it,  and 
we  gave  it  her  at  last,  under  the  idea  that  no 
further  harm  would  ensue  ;  but  she  would  once 
M^ite  to  you,  and  you  would  bite  your  lips  and 
forget  to  answer  it,  and  so  it  would  end.  You 
read  us  a  dismal  homily  upon  "  Realities,"  We 
know,  quite  as  well  as  you  do,  what  are  shadows 
and  what  are  realities.  You,  for  instance,  when 
you  are  over  your  fourth  or  fifth  jorum,  chirping 
about  old  school  occurrences,  are  the  best  of 
realities.  Shadows  are  cold,  thin  things,  that 
have  no  warmth  or  grasp  in  them.  Miss 
Wesley  and  her  friend,  and  a  tribe  of  author- 
esses that  come  after  you  here  daily,  and,  in 
defect  of  you,  hive  and  cluster  upon  us,  are  the 


Wiit  aiiD  mis^om  173 

shadows.  You  encouraged  that  mopsey,  Miss 
"Wesley,  to  dance  after  you,  in  the  hope  of  hav- 
ing her  nonsense  put  into  a  nonsensical  Anthol- 
ogy. We  have  pretty  well  shaken  her  off  by 
that  simple  expedient  of  referring  her  to  you  ; 
but  there  are  more  burs  in  the  wind.  I  came 
t'  other  day  from  business,  hungry  as  a  hunter, 
to  dinner,  with  nothing,  I  am  sure,  of  the 
author  but  hunger  about  me  ;  and  whom  found 
I  closeted  with  Mary  but  a  friend  of  this  Miss 
Wesley,  one  Miss  Benjay  or  Benje  ;  I  don't 
know  how  she  spells  her  name.  I  just  came 
in  time  enough,  I  believe,  luckily  to  prevent 
them  from  exchanging  vows  of  eternal  friend- 
ship. It  seems  she  is  one  of  your  authoresses, 
that  you  first  foster,  and  then  upbraid  us  with. 
But  I  forgive  you.  "The  rogue  has  given  me 
potions  to  make  me  love  him."  Well  ;  go  she 
would  not,  nor  step  a  step  over  our  threshold, 
till  we  had  promised  to  come  and  drink  tea  with 
her  next  night.  I  had  never  seen  her  before, 
and  could  not  tell  who  the  devil  it  was  that  was 
so  familiar.  We  went,  however,  not  to  be  im- 
polite.    Her  lodgings  are  up  two  pair  of  stairs 


174  Cbarles  Xamb's 

in  Bast  Street.     Tea  and  coffee,  and  macaroons 

— a  kind  of  cake — much  love.  We  sat  down. 
Presently  Miss  Benjay  broke  the  silence,  by 
declaring  herself  quite  of  a  different  opinion 
from  D^Isi^aeli,  who  supposes  the  differences 
of  human  intellect  to  be  the  mere  effect  of 
organization.  She  begged  to  know  my  opinion. 
I  attempted  to  carry  it  off  with  a  pun  upon 
organ,  but  that  went  off  very  flat.  She  imme- 
diately conceived  a  very  low  opinion  of  my 
metaphysics  ;  and,  turning  round  to  Mary,  put 
some  question  to  her  in  French, — possibly  hav- 
ing heard  that  neither  Mary  nor  I  understood 
French.  The  explanation  that  took  place 
occasioned  some  embarrassment  and  much 
wondering.  She  then  fell  into  an  insulting 
conversation  about  the  comparative  genius  and 
merits  of  all  modern  languages,  and  concluded 
w4th  asserting  that  the  Saxon  was  esteemed  the 
purest  dialect  in  Germany.  From  thence  she 
passed  into  the  subject  of  poetry  ;  where  I,  who 
had  hitherto  sat  mute,  and  a  hearer  only,  humbly 
hoped  I  might  now  put  in  a  word  to  some  ad- 
vantage, seeing  that  it  was  my  own  trade  in 


Wiit  auD  WisDont  175 

a  manner.  But  I  was  vStopped  by  a  round  asser- 
tion, that  no  good  poetry  had  appeared  since 
Dr.  Johnson's  time.  It  seems  the  Doctor  has 
suppressed  many  hopeful  geniuses  that  way,  by 
the  severity  of  his  critical  strictures  in  his 
Lives  of  the  Poets.  I  here  ventured  to  ques- 
tion the  fact,  and  was  beginning  to  appeal  to 
names,  but  I  was  assured  "  it  was  certainly  the 
case."  Then  we  discussed  Miss  More's  book 
on  education,  which  I  had  never  read.  It 
seems  Dr.  Gregory,  another  of  Miss  Benjay's 
friends,  has  found  fault  with  one  of  Miss  More's 
metaphors.  Miss  More  has  been  at  some  pains 
to  vindicate  herself, — in  the  opinion  of  Miss 
Benjay  not  without  success.  It  seems  the  Doc- 
tor is  invariably  against  the  use  of  broken  or 
mixed  metaphor,  which  he  reprobates,  against 
the  authority  of  Shakespeare  himself.  We  next 
discussed  the  question,  whether  Pope  was  a 
poet  ?  I  find  Dr.  Gregory  is  of  opinion  he  was 
not,  though  Miss  Seward  does  not  at  all  concur 
with  him  in  this.  We  then  sat  upon  the  com- 
parative merits  of  the  ten  translations  of  Pi- 
zarro,  and  Miss  Benjay  or  Benje  advised  Mary 


176  Gbarlcs  Xamb's 

to  take  two  of  them  home  (she  thought  it 
might  afford  her  some  pleasure  to  compare 
them  vcj'batmi) ;  which  we  declined.  It  being 
now  nine  o'clock,  wine  and  macaroons  were 
again  served  round,  and  we  parted,  with  a 
promise  to  go  again  next  week,  and  meet  the 
Miss  Porters,  who,  it  seems,  have  heard  much 
of  Mr.  Coleridge,  and  wish  to  meet  7is,  because 
we  are  his  friends.  I  have  been  preparing  for 
the  occasion.  I  crowd  cotton  in  my  ears.  I 
read  all  the  reviews  and  magazines  of  the  past 
month,  against  the  dreadful  meeting,  and  I 
hope  by  these  means  to  cut  a  tolerable  second- 
rate  figure. 

Pray  let  us  have  no  more  complaints  about 
shadows.  We  are  in  a  fair  way,  through 
yoti,  to  surfeit  sick  upon  them. — [To  Coleridge, 
1800.] 

C.  ly.'S  "MORAi,  S^NSE."  — C.  ly.'s  moral 
sense  presents  her  compliments  to  Dr.  Man- 
ning, is  very  thankful  for  his  medical  advice, 
but  is  happy  to  add  that  her  disorder  has  died 
of  itself. 


mit  anD  limisDom  177 


Dr.  Mantling,  Coleridge  has  left  us,  to  go 
into  the  North,  on  a  visit  to  Wordsworth.  With 
him  have  flown  all  my  splendid  prospects  of 
engagement  with  the  Morning  Post,  all  my 
visionary  guineas,  the  deceitful  wages  of  un- 
born scandal.  In  truth,  I  wonder  you  took  it 
up  so  seriously.  All  my  intention  was  but  to 
make  a  little  sport  with  such  public  and  fair 
game  as  Mr.  Pitt,  Mr.  Wilberforce,  Mrs.  Fitz- 
herbet,  the  Devil,  etc. — gentry  dipped  in  Styx 
all  over,  whom  no  paper-javelinlings  can  touch. 
To  have  made  free  with  these  cattle  where  was 
the  harm  ?  't  would  have  been  but  giving  a 
polish  to  lamp-black,  not  nigrifying  a  negro 
primarily.  After  all,  I  cannot  but  regret  my  in- 
voluntary virtue.  Damn  virtue  that  's  thrust 
upon  us  ;  it  behaves  itself  with  such  constraint, 
till  conscience  opens  the  window  and  lets 
out  the  goose.  I  had  struck  off  two  imita- 
tions of  Burton,  quite  abstracted  from  any 
modern  allusions,  which  it  was  my  intent 
only  to  lug  in  from  time  to  time  to 
make  'em  popular. — \To  Manning^  October^, 
1800.1 


178  Cbarlc0  3Lamb*6 

A  Pen  Portrait  of*  Rickman.— I  have  made 
an  acquisition  latterly  of  a  pleasant  hand,  one 
Rickman,  to  whom  I  was  introduced  by  George 
Dyer,  not  the  most  flattering  auspices  under 
which  one  man  can  be  introduced  to  another. 
George  brings  all  sorts  of  people  together, 
setting  up  a  sort  of  agrarian  law,  or  common 
property,  in  matter  of  society  ;  but  for  once  he 
has  done  me  a  great  pleasure,  while  he  was 
only  pursuing  a  principle,  as  ignes  fatui  may 
light  you  home.  This  Rickman  lives  in  our 
Buildings,  immediately  opposite  our  house  ;  the 
finest  fellow  to  drop  in  a'  nights,  about  nine  or 
ten  o'clock — cold  bread  and  cheese  time — just 
in  the  wishi?ig  time  of  the  night,  when  you 
wish  for  somebody  to  come  in,  without  a  dis- 
tinct idea  of  a  probable  anybody.  Just  in  the 
nick,  neither  too  early  to  be  tedious,  nor  too 
late  to  sit  a  reasonable  time.  He  is  a  most 
pleasant  hand  ;  a  fine  rattling  fellow,  has  gone 
through  life  laughing  at  solemn  apes ; — him- 
self hugely  literate,  oppressively  full  of  infor- 
mation in  all  stuff  of  conversation,  from  matter 
of  fact  to  Xenophon  and  Plato— can  talk  Greek 


IRIlit  anD  Tiaifs&om  179 


with  Porson,  politics  with  Thelwall,  conjecture 
with  George  Dyer,  nonsense  with  me,  and  any- 
thing with  anybody  ;  a  great  farmer,  somewhat 
concerned  in  an  agricultural  magazine  ;  reads 
no  poetry  but  Shakespeare  ;  very  intimate  with 
Southey,  but  never  reads  his  poetry  ;  relishes 
George  'Dyer  ;  thoroughly  penetrates  into  the 
ridiculous  wherever  found;  understands  ih.Qjirst 
time  (a  great  desideratum  in  common  minds) — 
you  need  never  twice  speak  to  him  ;  does  not 
want  explanations,  translations,  limitations,  as 
Professor  Godwin  does  when  you  make  an  as- 
sertion ;  up  to  anything ;  down  to  every  thing  ; 
whatever  sapit  hominem,  A  perfect  man.  All 
this  farrago,  which  must  perplex  you  to  read, 
and  has  put  me  to  a  little  trouble  to  select,  only 
proves  how  impossible  it  is  to  describe  Ti pleasant 
hand.  You  must  see  Rickman  to  know  him,  for 
he  is  a  species  in  one  ;  a  new  class  ;  an  exotic  ; 
any  slip  of  which  I  am  proud  to  put  in  my  gar- 
denpot ;  the  clearest-headed  fellow  ;  fullest  of 
matter,  with  least  verbosity.  If  there  be  any 
alloy  in  my  fortune  to  have  met  with  such  a  man, 
it  is  that  he  commonly  divides  his  time  between 


i8o  Cbarlcs  Xamb's 


town  and  country,  having  some  foolish  family 
ties  at  Christchurch,  by  which  means  he  can 
only  gladden  our  I^ondon  hemisphere  with  re- 
turns of  light.  He  is  now  going  for  six  weeks. 
— \_To  Manning,  November 3,  iSoo.J 

Ox  Dr.  Anderson. — George  Dyer  has  intro- 
duced me  to  the  table  of  an  agreeable  old  gen- 
tleman, Dr.  Anderson,  who  gives  hot  legs  of 
mutton  and  grape  pies  at  his  sylvan  lodge  at 
Isleworth ;  w^here,  in  the  middle  of  a  street,  he 
has  shot  up  a  wall  most  preposterously  before 
his  small  dwelling,  which,  with  the  circum- 
stance of  his  taking  several  panes  of  glass  out 
of  bed-room  windows  (for  air),  causeth  his 
neighbors  to  speculate  strangely  on  the  state 
of  the  good  man's  pericranicks.  Plainly,  he 
lives  under  the  reputation  of  being  deranged. 
George  does  not  mind  this  circumstance ;  he 
rather  likes  him  the  better  for  it.  The  Doctor, 
in  his  pursuits,  joins  agricultural  to  poetical 
science,  and  has  set  George's  brains  mad  about 
the  old  Scotch  writers,  Barbour,  Douglas' 
.^neid,  Blind  Harry,  etc.      We  returned  home 


•QCllt  anD  MisDom  iSi 


in  a  return  postchaise  (having  dined  with  the 
Doctor),  and  George  kept  wondering  and  won- 
dering, for  eight  or  nine  turnpike  miles,  what 
was  the  name,  and  striving  to  recollect  the 
name  of  a  poet  anterior  to  Barbour.  I  begged 
to  know  what  was  remaining  of  his  works. 
"There  is  nothing  extant  of  his  works.  Sir; 
but  by  all  account  he  seems  to  have  been  a  fine 
genius"!  This  fine  genius,  without  anything 
to  show  for  it,  or  any  title  beyond  George's 
courtesy,  without  even  a  name  ;  and  Barbour, 
and  Douglas,  and  Blind  Harry,  now  are  the 
predominant  sounds  in  George's /m  mater ^  and 
their  buzzings  exclude  politics,  criticism,  and 
algebra — the  late  lords  of  that  illustrious  lum- 
ber-room. Mark,  he  has  never  read  any  of 
these  books,  but  is  impatient  till  he  reads  them 
all  at  the  Doctor's  suggestion.  Poor  Dyer  !  his 
friends  should  be  careful  what  sparks  they  let 
fall  into  such  inflammable  matter. — ^^To  Man- 
ning ^  August  22^  1800.1 

Ringing  in  TH^  He;ad.— My  head  is  play- 
ing all  the  tunes  in   the  world,  ringing  such 


i82  Cbarles  Xamb*6 

peals  !  It  lias  just  finished  the  Merry  Christ 
Church  Bells,  and  absolutely  is  beginning 
Turn  again,  Whittington,  Buz,  buz,  buz,  bum, 
bum,  bum,  wheeze,  wheeze,  wheeze,  fen,  fen,  fen, 
tinky,  tinky,  tinky,  cr'annch.  I  shall  certainly 
come  to  be  condemned  at  last.  I  have  been 
drinking  too  much  for  two  days  running.  I  find 
my  moral  sense  in  the  last  stage  of  a  consump- 
tion, and  my  religion  getting  faint.  This  is  dis- 
heartening ;  but  I  trust  the  devil  will  not  over- 
power me.  In  the  midst  of  this  infernal  larum. 
Conscience  is  barking  and  yelping  as  loud  as  any 
of  them.  I  have  sat  down  to  read  over  again 
your  satire  upon  me  in  the  Anthology,  and  I 
think  I  do  begin  to  spy  out  something  like 
beauty  and  design  in  it.  I  perfectly  accede  to 
all  your  alterations,  and  only  desire  that  you 
had  cut  deeper,  when  your  hand  was  in. — \_To 
Coleridge,  August  14,  i8oo.'\ 

On  IvONDON. — For  my  part,  with  reference  to 
my  friends  northward,  I  must  confess  that  I  am 
not  romance-bit  about  Nature.  The  earth,  and 
sea,  and  sky  (when  all  is  said),  is  but  as  a  house 


Wit  atiD  tKHis^om  183 


to  dwell  in.  If  the  inmates  be  courteous,  and 
good  liquors  flow  like  the  conduits  at  an  old 
coronation,  if  they  can  talk  sensibly,  and  feel 
properly,  I  have  no  need  to  stand  staring  upon 
the  gilded  jlooking-glass  (that  strained  my 
friend's  purse-strings  in  the  purchase),  nor  his 
five-shilling  print,  over  the  mantelpiece,  of  old 
Nabbs  the  carrier  (which  only  betrays  his  false 
taste).  Just  as  important  to  me  (in  a  sense)  is 
all  the  furniture  of  my  world  ;  eye-pampering, 
but  satisfies  no  heart.  Streets,  streets,  streets, 
markets,  theatres,  churches,  Covent  Gardens, 
shops  sparkling  with  pretty  faces  of  industrious 
milliners,  neat  sempstresses,  ladies  cheapening, 
gentlemen  behind  counters  lying,  authors  in 
the  streets  with  spectacles,  George  Dyers  (you 
may  know  them  by  their  gait),  lamps  lit  at 
night,  pastrycooks'  and  silversmiths'  shops, 
beautiful  Quakers  of  Pentonville,  noise  of 
coaches,  drowsy  cry  of  mechanic  watchmen  at 
night,  with  bucks  reeling  home  drunk  ;  if  you 
happen  to  wake  at  midnight,  cries  of  "  Fire  !  " 
and  "Stop  thief!"  ;  inns  of  court,  with  their 
learned  air,  and  halls,  and  butteries,  just  like 


i84  Cbarles  Xamb's 

Cambridge  colleges  ;  old  book-stalls,  "Jeremy 
Taylors,"  "Burtonson  Melancholy,"  and  "  Re- 
ligio  Medicis,"  on  every  stall.  These  are  thy 
pleasures,  O  London  !  with  thy  many  sins.  O 
City,  abounding  in  w  .  .  .,  for  these  may  Kes- 
wick and  her  giant  brood  go  hang. — [To  Man- 
ning^ Nov.  28,  i8oo.'\ 

On  the  German  Language.— Write  your 
German  as  plain  as  sunshine,  for  that  must 
correct  itself  You  know  I  am  homo  unius 
Ungues :  in  English — illiterate,  a  dunce,  a 
ninny. — [7b  Coleridge,  i8oo.'\ 

On  George  Dyer. — George  Dyer  is  an 
Archimedes,  and  an  Archimagus,  and  a  Tycho 
Brahe,  and  a  Copernicus ;  and  thou  art  the 
darling  of  the  Nine,  and  midwife  to  their  wan- 
dering babe  also !  We  take  tea  with  that 
learned  poet  and  critic  on  Tuesday  night,  at 
half-past  five,  in  his  neat  library.  The  repast 
will  be  light  and  Attic,  with  criticism.  If  thou 
couldst  contrive  to  wheel  up  thy  dear  carcass 
on  the  Monday,  and  after  dining  with  us  on 


imit  anO  MiaDom  185 


tripe,  calves'  kidneys,  or  whatever  else  the 
Cornucopia  of  St.  Clare  may  be  willing  to  pour 
out  on  the  occasion,  might  we  not  adjourn  to- 
gether to  the  Heathen's — thou  with  thy  Black 
Back,  and  I  with  some  innocent  volume  of  the 
Bell  I^etters,  Shenstone,  or  the  like  ;  it  would 
make  him  wash  his  old  flannel  gown  (that  has 
not  been  washed  to  my  knowledge  since  it  has 
been  his — Oh  the  long  time  !)  with  tears  of  joy. 
Thou  shouldst  settle  his  scruples  and  unravel 
his  cobwebs,  and  sponge  off  the  sad  stuff  that 
weighs  upon  his  dear  wounded /z'a  matci^.  Thou 
shouldst  restore  light  to  his  eyes,  and  him  to 
his  friends,  and  the  public.  Parnassus  should 
shower  her  civic  crowns  upon  thee  for  saving 
the  wits  of  a  citizen  \—[To  Manning;  1800.'] 

Truth  and  Sincerity. — Dear  Manning — 
Olivia  is  a  good  girl,  and  if  3^011  turn  to  my 
letter  you  will  find  that  this  very  plea  you  set 
up  to  vindicate  Lloyd,  I  had  made  use  of  as  a 
reason  why  he  should  never  have  employed 
Olivia  to  make  a  copy  of  such  a  letter  ! — a  letter 
I  could  not  have  sent  to  my  Enemy's  B ,  if 


t86  Cbarles  %amb'3 


she  had  thought  proper  to  seek  me  in  the  way 
of  marriage.  But  3-0U  see  it  in  one  view,  I  in 
another.  Rest  you  merry  in  your  opinion ! 
Opinion  is  a  species  of  property ;  and  though  I 
am  always  desirous  to  share  with  my  friend  to  a 
certain  extent,  I  shall  ever  like  to  keep  some 
tenets,  and  some  property,  properly  my  own. 
Some  day.  Manning,  when  we  meet,  substitut- 
ing Corydon  and  fair  Amaryllis,  for  Charles 
I/loyd  and  Mary  Hayes,  w^e  will  discuss  together 
this  question  of  moral  feeling,  "In  what  cases, 
and  how  far,  sincerity  is  a  virtue?  "  I  do  not 
mean  Truth,  a  good  Olivia-like  creature,  God 
bless  her,  who,  meaning  no  offence,  is  always 
ready  to  give  an  answer  when  she  is  asked  why 
she  did  so  and  so  ;  but  a  certain  forward-talking 
half-brother  of  hers.  Sincerity,  that  amphibious 
gentleman,  who  is  so  ready  to  perk  up  his  ob- 
noxious sentiments  unasked  into  your  notice, 
as  Midas  would  his  ears  into  your  face,  uncalled 
for.  But  I  despair  of  doing  anything  by  a  letter 
in  the  way  of  explaining  or  coming  to  explana- 
tions. A  good  wish,  or  a  pun,  or  a  piece  of 
secret  history,  may  be  well  enough  that  way 


limit  m\t>  mis^om  1S7 

conveyed  ;  nay,  it  has  been  known,  that  intelli- 
gence of  a  turkey  hath  been  conveyed  by  that 
medium,  without  much  ambiguit}'. — [To  Man- 
ning, 1800.] 

A  New  Coat. — My  tailor  has  brought  me 
home  a  new  coat  lapelled  with  a  velvet  collar. 
He  assures  me  everybody  wears  velvet  collars 
now.  Some  are  born  fashionable,  some  achieve 
fashion,  and  others,  like  your  humble  servant, 
have  fashion  thrust  upon  them.  The  rogue 
has  been  making  inroads  hitherto  by  modest 
degrees,  foisting  upon  me  an  additional  button, 
recommending  gaiters  ;  but  to  come  upon  me 
thus,  in  a  full  tide  of  luxury,  neither  becomes 
him  as  a  tailor  nor  the  ninth  of  a  man.  My 
meek  gentleman  was  robbed  the  other  day, 
coming  with  his  wife  and  family  in  a  one-horse 
shay  from  Hempstead.  The  villains  rifled  him 
of  four  guineas,  some  shillings  and  half-pence, 
and  a  bundle  of  customers'  measures,  which 
they  swore  were  bank-notes.  They  did  not 
shoot  him,  and  when  they  rode  off  he  addressed 
them  with  profound  gratitude,  making  a  con- 


1 88  Gbarlcs  Xamb'3 

gee  :  *'  Gentlemen,  I  wish  you  good-night,  and 
we  are  very  much  obliged  to  you  that  you  have 
not  used  us  ill !  "  And  this  is  the  cuckoo  that 
has  had  the  audacity  to  foist  upon  me  ten  but- 
tons on  a  side,  and  a  black  velvet  collar  !  A 
cursed  ninth  of  a  scoundrel. — [To  Sout/iey, 
November  i8^  1798.]   . 

GENTI.K  EWA. — For  God's  sake  (I  never  was 
more  serious)  don't  make  me  ridiculous  any 
more  by  terming  me  gentle-hearted  in  a  print, 
or  do  it  in  better  verses.  It  did  well  enough  five 
years  ago  when  I  came  to  see  you,  and  was 
moral  coxcomb  enough  at  the  time  you  wrote 
the  lines,  to  feed  upon  such  epithets  ;  but, 
besides  that,  the  meaning  of  "  gentle  "  is  equiv- 
ocal at  best,  and  almost  always  means  poor- 
spirited  ;  the  very  quality  of  gentleness  is 
abhorrent  to  such  vile  trumpetings.  My  seJiti- 
mcnt  is  long  since  vanished.  1  hope  my  virtues 
have  done  suckhig.  I  can  scarce  think  but  you 
meant  it  in  joke.  I  hope  you  did,  for  I  should 
be  ashamed  to  believe  that  you  could  think  to 
gratify  me  by  such  praise,  fit  only  to  be  a  cordial 


limit  anD  MieDom  iSg 


to  some  green-sick  sonneteer. — [  To  Coleridge, 

August  (5,  i8oo.'\ 

C01.ERIDGE  AS  A  Companion. — Dear  Man- 
ning— I  am  living  in  a  continuous  feast. 
Coleridge  has  been  with  me  now  for  nigh  three 
weeks,  and  the  more  I  see  of  him  in  the 
quotidian  undress  and  relaxation  of  his  mind, 
the  more  cause  I  see  to  love  him,  and  believe 
him  a  very  good  man,  and  all  those  foolish  im- 
pressions to  the  contrary  fly  off  like  morning 
slumbers.  He  is  engaged  in  translations,  which 
I  hope  will  keep  him  this  mouth  to  come.  He 
is  uncommonly  kind  and  friendly  to  me.  He 
ferrets  me  day  and  night  to  do  something. 
He  tends  me,  amidst  all  his  own  worrying  and 
heart-oppressing  occupations,  as  a  gardener 
tends  his  young  tulip.  Marry  come  up  ;  what 
a  pretty  similitude,  and  how  like  your  humble 
servant !  He  has  lugged  me  to  the  brink  of 
engaging  to  a  newspaper,  and  has  suggested  to 
me,  for  a  first  plan,  the  forgery  of  a  supposed 
manuscript  of  Burton,  the  anatomist  of  melan- 
choly.    I  have  even  written  the  introductory 


iQo  Cbarles  Xamb's 

letter  ;  and  if  I  can  pick  up  a  few  guineas  this 
way,  I  feel  they  will  be  most  refreshings  bread 
being  so  dear. — [7b  Mannings  March  ly,  1800.] 

On  Wii^i^iAM  Godwin. — Godwin  I  am  a  good 
deal  pleased  with.  He  is  a  very  well-behaved, 
decent  man  ;  nothing  very  brilliant  about  him 
or  imposing,  as  you  may  suppose  ;  quite  another 
guess  sort  of  gentleman  from  what  your  anti- 
jacobin  Christians  imagine  him.  I  was  well 
pleased  to  find  he  has  neither  horn  nor  claws  ; 
quite  a  tame  creature,  I  assure  you  :  a  middle- 
sized  man,  both  in  stature  and  in  understand- 
ing ;  whereas,  from  his  noisy  fame,  you  would 
expect  to  find  a  Briareus  Centimanus,  or  a 
Tityus  tall  enough  to  pull  Jupiter  from  his 
heavens. — [To  Maunbig,  iSoo.'] 

The  Lord  Mayor  of  London. — I  shall  an- 
ticipate all  my  play,  and  have  nothing  to  show 
you.  An  idea  for  Leviathan  :  Commentators 
on  Job  have  been  puzzled  to  find  out  a  meaning 
for  Leviathan.  'T  is  a  whale,  say  some  ;  a  croc- 
odile, say   others.     In  my  simple   conjecture. 


Wiit  and  limiaOom  191 

Leviathan  is  neither  more  nor  less  than  the 
lyord  Mayor  of  London  for  the  time  being. — 
[Zb  Southey^  April  20^  ^799-^ 

On  Bishop  Burnet's  History. — My  pri- 
vate goings  on  are  orderly  as  the  movements 
of  the  spheres,  and  stale  as  their  music  to 
angels'  ears.  Public  affairs — except  as  they 
touch  upon  me,  and  so  turn  into  private, — I 
cannot  whip  up  my  mind  to  feel  any  interest 
in.  I  grieve,  indeed,  that  War,  and  Nature,  and 
Mr.  Pitt,  that  hangs  up  in  Lloyd's  best  parlor, 
should  have  conspired  to  call  up  three  neces- 
saries, simple  commoners  as  our  fathers  knew 
them,  into  the  upper  house  of  luxuries  ;  bread, 
and  beer,  and  coals,  Manning.  But  as  to 
France  and  Frenchmen,  and  the  Abh6  Sieyes 
and  his  constitutions,  I  cannot  make  these 
present  times  present  to  me.  I  read  histories 
of  the  past,  and  I  live  in  them  ;  although,  to 
abstract  senses,  they  are  far  less  momentous 
than  the  noises  which  keep  Europe  awake.  I 
am  reading  Burnet's  History  of  His  Own 
Times.      Did  you    ever  read   that    garrulous. 


192  Cbarles  Xamb's 

pleasant  history  ?  He  tells  his  story  like  an 
old  man  past  political  service,  bragging  to  his 
sons  on  winter  evenings  of  the  part  he  took  in 
public  transactions,  when  his  "old  cap  was 
new. ' '  Full  of  scandal,  which  all  true  history  is. 
No  palliatives  ;  but  all  the  stark  wickedness, 
that  actually  gives  the  vionientum  to  national 
actors.  Quite  the  prattle  of  age,  and  out-lived 
importance.  Truth  and  sincerity  staring  out 
upon  you  perpetually  in  alto  relievo.  Himself 
a  party  man — he  makes  you  a  party  man. 
None  of  the  cursed  philosophical  Humeian 
indifference,  so  cold,  and  unnatural,  and  inhu- 
man !  None  of  the  cursed  Gibbonian  fine 
writing,  so  fine  and  composite  !  None  of  Dr. 
Robertson's  periods  with  three  members.  None 
of  Mr.  Roscoe's  sage  remarks,  all  so  apposite, 
and  coming  in  so  clever,  lest  the  reader  should 
have  had  the  trouble  of  drawing  an  inference. 
Burnet's  good  old  prattle  I  can  bring  present  to 
my  mind  :  I  can  make  the  revolution  present 
to  me  :  the  French  revolution,  by  a  converse 
perversity  in  my  nature,  I  fling  as  idx  from  me. 
To  quit  this  tiresome  subject,  and  to  relieve 


mft  anD  Mls^om  193 


you  from  two  or  three  dismal  yawns,  which  I 
hear  in  spirit,  I  here  conclude  my  more  than 
commonly  obtuse  letter  ;  dull,  up  to  the  dulness 
of  a  Dutch  commentator  on  Shakespeare. — [  To 
Mannings  March  i,  iSoo.l 

Acute  Criticism. — "  Cousin  Margaret,"  you 
know,  I  like.  The  allusions  to  the  Pilgrim'' s 
Progress  are  particularly  happy,  and  harmonize 
tacitly  and  delicately  with  old  cousins  and 
aunts.  To  familiar  faces  we  do  associate  famil- 
iar scenes  and  accustomed  objects  :  but  what 
hath  Apollidon  and  his  sea-nymphs  to  do  in 
these  affairs  ?  Apollyon  I  could  have  borne, 
though  he  stands  for  the  Devil.  But  who  is 
Apollidon  ?  I  think  you  are  too  apt  to  conclude 
faintly,  with  some  cold  moral,  as  in  the  end  of 
the  poem  called  The  Victory  : 

"  Be  thou  our  comforter,  who  art  the  widow's  friend  "  ; 

a  single  commonplace  line  of  comfort,  which 

bears  no  proportion  in  weight  or  number  to  the 

many  lines  which  describe  sufifering.     This  is  to 

convert  religion  into  mediocre  feelings,  which 
13 


194  Cbarlcs  Xamb*6 

should  bum,  and  glow,  and  tremble.    A  moral 

should  be  wrought  into  the  body  and  soul,  the 
matter  and  tendency  of  a  poem,  not  tagged  to 
the  end,  like  a  "  God  send  the  good  ship  into 
harbor  "  at  the  conclusion  of  our  bills  of  lading. 
The  finishing  of  the  Sailor  is  also  imperfect. 
Any  dissenting  minister  m?ly  say  and  do  as 
much. 

These  remarks,  I  know,  are  crude  and  un- 
wrought,  but  I  do  not  lay  much  claim  to  accu- 
rate thinking.  I  never  judge  system-wise  of 
things,  but  fasten  upon  particulars.  After  all, 
there  is  a  great  deal  in  the  book  that  I  must, 
for  time,  leave  uninentioned,  to  deserve  my 
thanks  for  its  own  sake,  as  well  as  for  the 
friendly  remembrances  implied  in  the  gift. — 
[7b  Southey,  March  75-,  1799.1 

Theses  Ou^dam  Theoi^ogic^. 


"Whether   God  loves   a  lying  angel  better 
than  a  true  man?  " 


Win  an&  limisDom  195 

II. 

"  Whether  the  archangel  Uriel  could  know- 
ingly afl&rm  an  untruth,  and  whether,  if  he 
couldy  he  would?  " 

III. 
"Whether  honesty  be  an  angelic  virtue,  or 
not  rather  belonging  to  that  class  of  qualities 
which  the  schoolmen  term  *  virtutes  minus 
splendidae  et  hominis  et  terrse  nimis  par- 
ticipes?'" 

IV. 

"Whether  the  seraphim  ardentes  do  not 
manifest  their  goodness  by  the  way  of  vision 
and  theory  ?  and  whether  practice  be  not  a  sub- 
celestial,  and  merely  human  virtue  ? 

V. 

"Whether  the  higher  order  of  seraphim  il- 
luminati  ever  sneer  ?  " 

VI. 

"  Whether  pure  intelligences  can  love,  or 
whether  they  can  love  anything  besides  pure 
intellect  ?  " 


196  Gbarles  Xamb'a 

VII. 

"Whether  the  beatific  vision  be  anything 
more  or  less  than  a  perpetual  representment 
to  each  individual  angel  of  his  own  present 
attainments,  and  future  capabilities,  something 
in  the  manner  of  mortal  looking-glasses  ?  '* 
VIII, 

"  "Whether  an  '  immortal  and  amenable  soul ' 
may  not  come  to  be  damned  at  last,  and  the  man 
never  suspect  it  beforehand  ?  " 

Samuel  Taylor  Coleridge  hath  not  deigned  an 
answer.  Was  it  impertinent  of  me  to  avail 
myself  of  that  offered  source  of  knowledge  ? 

Wishing  Madoc  may  be  born  into  the  world 
with  as  splendid  promise  as  the  second  birth, 
or  purification,  of  the  Maid  of  Neufchatel, — I 
remain  yours  sincerely,  C.  Lamb. 

[  To  Southey,  July  28,  1/98.] 

Priksti<ey's  Sermons. — Coleridge  !  in  read- 
ing your  Religious  Musings  I  felt  a  transient 
superiority  over  you.  I  have  seen  Priestley.  I 
love  to  see  his  name  repeated  in  your  writings. 


luait  anD  misDom  197 


I  love  and  honor  him,  almost  profanely.     You 

would  be  charmed  with  his  Sermons,  if  you  ever 
read  'em. — [Zb  Coleridge,  1796.1 

Thb  Crutch  of  Benevoi^knck.— Benevo- 
lence sets  out  on  her  journey  with  a  good  heart, 
and  puts  a  good  face  on  it,  but  is  apt  to  limp 
and  grow  feeble,  unless  she  calls  in  the  aid  of 
self-interest  by  way  of  crutch.— [7b  Coleridge, 
Oct.  28,  1796.1 

The  Expression  of  Affection. — But  there 
is  a  monotony  in  the  affections,  which  people 
living  together,  or,  as  we  do  now,  very  fre- 
quently seeing  each  other,  are  apt  to  give  in  to  ; 
a  sort  of  indifference  in  the  expression  of  kind- 
ness for  each  other,  which  demands  that  we 
should  sometimes  call  to  our  aid  the  trickery 
of  surprise. — [7b    Coleridge,    Nov.    14,  1796.1 

Friendship. — 'T  is  the  privilege  of  friend- 
ship to  talk  nonsense,  and  to  have  her  non- 
sense respected. — [7(9  Coleridge,  Feb.  /j,  1797.I 

Gratitude  to  Coi^eridge. — You  have  writ 
me  many  kind  letters,  and  I  have  answered  none 


igS  Cbarles  Xamb's 

of  them.  I  don't  deserve  your  attentions.  An 
unnatural  indifference  has  been  creeping  on 
me  since  my  last  misfortunes,  or  I  should  have 
seized  the  first  opening  of  a  correspondence 
with  you.  To  you  I  owe  much,  under  God. 
In  my  brief  acquaintance  with  you  in  London, 
your  conversations  won  me  to  the  better  cause, 
and  rescued  me  from  the  polluting  spirit  of  the 
world.  I  might  have  been  a  worthless  character 
without  you  ;  as  it  is,  I  do  possess  a  certain  im- 
provable portion  of  devotional  feelings,  though 
when  I  view  myself  in  the  light  of  divine  truth, 
and  not  according  to  the  common  measures  of 
human  judgment,  I  am  altogether  corrupt  and 
sinful.  This  is  no  cant.  I  am  very  sincere. — 
[7b  Coleridge,  Jan.  28,  i/pS.] 

SpirituaIv  Desires. — Priestley,  whom  I  sin 
in  almost  adoring,  speaks  of  "such  a  choice  of 
company  as  tends  to  keep  up  that  right  bent 
and  firmness  of  mind  which  a  necessary  inter- 
course with  the  world  would  otherwise  warp 
and  relax.  "  "  Such  fellowship  is  the  true  bal- 
sam of  life  ;  its  cement  is  infinitely  more  dura- 


mit  auD  mtsDom  199 


ble  than  that  of  the  friendships  of  the  world ;  and 

it  looks  for  its  proper  fruit  and  complete  grati- 
fication to  the  life  beyond  the  grave.  "  Is  there 
a  possible  chance  for  such  an  one  as  I  to  rea- 
lize in  this  world  such  friendships  ?  Where  am 
I  to  look  for  'em  ?  What  testimonials  shall  I 
bring  of  my  being  worthy  of  such  friendship  ? 
Alas  !  the  great  and  good  go  together  in  sepa- 
rate herds,  and  leave  such  as  I  to  lag  far,  far 
behind  in  all  intellectual,  and,  far  more  grievous 
to  say,  in  all  moral  accomplishments.  Cole- 
ridge, I  have  not  one  truly  elevated  character 
among  my  acquaintance  :  not  one  Christian  : 
not  one  but  undervalues  Christianity.  Singly, 
what  am  I  to  do  ?  Wesley  (have  you  read  his 
life?)  was /^<?  not  an  elevated  character?  Wes- 
ley has  said,  "  Religion  is  not  a  solitary  thing." 
Alas  !  it  necessarily  is  so  with  me,  or  next  to 
solitary.  'Tis  true  3^ou  write  to  me;  but  cor- 
respondence by  letter,  and  personal  intimacy, 
are  very  widely  different.  Do,  do  write  to  me, 
and  do  some  good  to  my  mind,  already  how 
much  "warped  and  relaxed"  by  the  world! 
'T  is  the  conclusion  of  another  evening.     Good- 


200  Gbarles  Xamb*s 

night.     God  have  us  all  in  his  keeping! — [To 
Coleridge,  Ja7i.  lo,  1 797-1 

The  Dog  Dash. — Excuse  my  anxiety,  but 
how  is  Dash?  .  .  .  Goes  he  muzzled,  or  ff/!»^r/6> 
oref  Are  his  intellects  sound,  or  does  he  wan- 
der a  little  in  /izs  conversation  ?  You  cannot  be 
too  careful  to  watch  the  first  symptoms  of  inco- 
herence. The  first  illogical  snarl  he  makes,  to 
St.  Luke's  with  him  !  All  the  dogs  here  are 
going  mad,  if  you  believe  the  overseers  ;  but  I 
protest  they  seem  to  me  very  rational  and  col- 
lected. But  nothing  is  so  deceitful  as  mad  peo- 
ple, to  those  w^ho  are  not  used  to  them.  Try 
him  with  hot  water  :  if  he  won't  lick  it  up  it  is 
a  sign  he  does  not  like  it.  Does  his  tail  wag 
horizontally,  or  perpendicularly  ?  That  has  de- 
cided the  fate  of  many  dogs  in  Knfield.  Is  his 
general  deportment  cheerful  ?  I  mean  when  he 
is  pleased — for  otherwise  there  is  no  judging. 
You  can't  be  too  careful.  Has  he  bit  any  of 
the  children  yet?  If  he  has,  have  them  shot, 
and  keep  /iwi  for  curiosity,  to  see  if  it  was  the 
hydrophobia.      They  say  all  our  army  in  India 


) 


Win  anD  misDom  201 

had  it  at  one  time  ;  but  that  was  in  HyderAUy^s 
time.  Do  you  get  paunch  for  him  ?  Take  care 
the  sheep  was  sane.  You  might  pull  out  his 
teeth  (if  he  would  let  you),  and  then  you  need 
not  mind  if  he  were  as  mad  as  a  Bedlamite.  It 
would  be  rather  fun  to  see  his  odd  ways.     It 

might  amuse   Mrs.    P and    the   children. 

They  'd  have  more  sense  then  he.  He  'd  be  like 
a  fool  kept  in  a  family,  to  keep  the  household 
in  good  humor  with  their  own  understanding. 
You  might  teach  him  the  mad  dance,  set  to  the 
mad  howl.  Madge  Owlet  would  be  nothing  to 
him.  "  My  !  how  he  capers  ! "  \_In  the  margin 
is  written,  "■One  of  the  children  speaks  this.'''] 
*  •  •  What  I  scratch  out  is  a  German  quotation 
from  Lessing,  on  the  bite  of  rabid  animals  ; 
but  I  remember  you  don't  read  German.     But 

Mrs.  P may,  so  I  wish  I  had  let  it  stand ; 

The  meaning  in  English  is — "Avoid  to  approach 
an  animal  suspected  of  madness,  as  j'ou  would 
avoid  lire  or  a  precipice,  "  which  I  think  is  a 
sensible  observation.  The  Germans  are  cer- 
tainly profounder  than  we.  If  the  slightest 
suspicion  arises  in  your  breast  that  all  is  not 


202  Cbarlea  Xamb's 

right  with  him,  muzzle  him  and  lead  him  in  a 
string  (common  pack-thread  will  do — he  don't 
care  for  twist)  to  Mr.  Hood's,  his  quondam 
master,  and  he  '11  take  him  in  at  any  time.  You 
may  mention  your  suspicion,  or  not,  as  you 
like,  or  as  you  think  it  may  wound  or  not  Mr. 

H 's  feelings.     Hood,  I  know,  will  wink  at 

a  few  follies  in  Dash,  in  consideration  of  his 
former  sense.  Besides,  Hood  is  deaf,  and  if 
you  hinted  anything,  ten  to  one  he  would 
not  hear  you.  Besides,  you  will  have  dis- 
charged your  conscience,  and  laid  the  child 
at  the  right  door,  as  they  say. — [To  P.  G. 
Patmore,  Sept.,  1S22.'] 

BooKSEi<ivERS  AND  AUTHORS.— I  have  known 
many  authors  for  bread,  some  repining,  others 
envying  the  blessed  security  of  a  counting-house, 
all  agreeing  they  would  rather  have  been  tailors, 
weavers, — what  not,  rather  than  the  things 
they  were.  I  have  known  some  starved,  some 
to  go  mad,  one  dear  friend  literally  d>4ng  in  a 
workhouse.  You  know  not  what  a  rapacious, 
dishonest  set  these  booksellers  are.     Ask  even 


mit  mt>  mis^om  203 


Southey,  who  (a  single  case  almost)  has  made 
a  fortune  by  book  drudgery,  what  he  has  found 
them.  Oh,  you  know  not  (may  you  never 
know  !)  the  miseries  of  subsisting  by  author- 
ship. 'T  is  a  pretty  appendage  to  a  situation 
like  yours  or  mine  ;  but  a  slavery,  worse  than 
all  slavery,  to  be  a  bookseller's  dependant,  to 
drudge  your  brains  for  pots  of  ale  and  breasts  of 
mutton,  to  change  your  free  thoughts  and 
voluntary  numbers  for  ungracious  task-work. 

Those  fellows  hate  us.  The  reason  I  take  to 
be  that,  contrary  to  other  trades,  in  which  the 
master  gets  all  the  credit  (a  jeweller  or  silver- 
smith, for  instance),  and  the  journeyman,  who 
really  does  the  fine  work,  is  in  the  background, 
— in  our  v/ork  the  world  gives  all  the  credit  to 
us,  whom  they  consider  as  f/ieir  journeymen, 
and  therefore  do  they  hate  us,  and  cheat  us,  and 
oppress  us,  and  would  wring  the  blood  of  us 
out,  to  put  another  sixpence  in  their  mechanic 
pouches  !  I  contend  that  a  bookseller  has  a 
relative  honesty  towards  authors,  not  like  his 

honesty  to  the  rest  of  the  world.     B ,  who 

first  engaged  me  as  "  Elia,"  has  not  paid  me  up 


204  Gbarlee  Xamb's 

yet  (nor  any  of  us  without  repeated  mortifying 
appeals),  yet  how  the  knave  fawned  when  I  was 
of  service  to  him  !  Yet  I  dare  say  the  fellow  is 
punctual  in  settling  his  milk -score,  etc. — \_To 
Barton,  Jan.  p,  j82j.'\ 

A  IviTERARY  Criticism.— I  will  just  add  that 
it  appears  to  me  a  fault  in  the  "  Beggar,"  that 
the  instructions  conveyed  in  it  are  too  direct, 
and  like  a  lecture  :  they  don't  slide  into  the 
mind  of  the  reader  while  he  is  imagining  no 
such  matter.  An  intelligent  reader  finds  a  sort 
of  insult  in  being  told,  "I  will  teach  you  how 
to  think  upon  this  subject."  This  fault,  if  I  am 
right,  is  in  a  ten-thousandth  worse  degree  to  be 
found  in  Sterne,  and  in  many  novelists  and 
modern  poets,  who  continually  put  a  sign-post 
up  to  show  where  you  are  to  feel.  They  set 
out  with  assuming  their  readers  to  be  stupid  ; 
very  different  from  Robinson  Crusoe,  the  Vicar 
of  Wakefield,  Roderick  Random,  and  other 
beautiful,  bare  narratives.  There  is  implied  an 
unwritten  compact  between  author  and  reader  ; 
"  I  will  tell  you  a  story,  and  I  suppose  you  will 


ma  anD  MlsDom  205 

understand  it."  Modern  novels,  SL  Leans  and 
the  like,  are  full  of  such  flowers  as  these — "Let 
not  my  reader  suppose,"  ''Imagine,  if  you  can, 
modest!"  etc.  I  will  here  have  done  with 
praise  and  blame.  I  have  written  so  much, 
only  that  you  may  not  think  I  have  passed  over 
your  book  without  observation.  ...  I  am 
sorry  that  Coleridge  has  christened  his  Ancient 
Marinere,  a  Poet's  Reverie ;  it  is  as  bad  as 
Bottom  the  Weaver's  declaration  that  he  is  not 
a  lion,  but  only  the  scenical  representation  of 
a  lion.  What  new  idea  is  gained  by  this  title 
but  one  subversive  of  all  credit — which  the  tale 
should  force  upon  us — of  its  truth  ! 

For  me,  I  was  never  so  affected  with  any 
human  tale.  After  first  reading  it,  I  was  totally 
possessed  with  it  for  many  days.  I  dislike  all 
the  miraculous  part  of  it ;  but  the  feelings  of 
the  man  under  the  operation  of  such  scenery, 
dragged  me  along  like  Tom  Pipe's  magic 
whistle. — \_To  Wordsworth^  Jan. ^  i8oi.'\ 

On  Wai^TOn's  "  CoMPi^ETK  ANGI.KR."— That 
is  a  book  you  should  read  ;  such  sweet  religion 


2o6  Cbarlcs  Uamb's 

in  it,  next  to  Woolman's,  though  the  subject  be 
baits,  and  hooks,  and  worms,  and  fishes. — [7b 
Miss  Fryer,  Feb.  14,  1834.'] 

Wet  Sundays.— I  have  observ^ed  that  a  letter 
is  never  more  acceptable  then  when  received 
upon  a  rainy  day,  especially  a  rainy  Sunday  ; 
which  moves  me  to  send  you  somewhat,  how- 
ever short.  This  will  find  you  sitting  after 
breakfast,  which  you  will  have  prolonged  as  far 
as  you  can  with  consistency  to  the  poor  hand- 
maid that  has  the  reversion  of  the  tea  leaves  ; 
making  two  nibbles  of  your  last  morsel  oi  stale 
roll  (you  cannot  have  hot  new  ones  on  the 
Sabbath),  and  reluctantly  coming  to  an  end, 
because  when  that  is  done,  what  can  you  do  till 
dinner?  You  cannot  go  to  the  Beach,  for  the 
rain  is  drowning  the  sea,  turning  rank  Thetis 
fresh,  taking  the  brine  out  of  Neptune's  pickles, 
while  mermaids  sit  upon  rocks  with  umbrellas, 
their  ivory  combs  sheathed  for  spoiling  in  the 
wet  of  w^aters  foreign  to  them.  You  cannot  go  to 
the  Library,  for  it  's  shut.  You  are  not  religious 
enough  to  go  to  Church.     O  it  is  worth  while 


mit  anO  Mis^om  207 

to  cultivate  piety  to  the  gods,  to  have  some- 
thing to  fill  the  heart  up  on  a  wet  Sunday. 
You  cannot  cast  accounts,  for  your  I^edger  is 
being  eaten  up  with  moths  in  the  Ancient 
Jewry.  You  cannot  play  at  draughts,  for  there 
is  none  to  play  with  you,  and  besides  there  is 
not  a  draught-board  in  the  house.  You  can- 
not go  to  market,  for  it  closed  last  night.  You 
cannot  look  into  the  shops,  their  backs  are  shut 
upon  you.  You  cannot  while  away  an  hour 
with  a  friend,  for  you  have  no  friend  round  that 
Wrekin.  You  cannot  divert  yourself  with  a 
stray  acquaintance,  for  you  have  picked  none 
up.  You  cannot  bear  the  chiming  of  Bells,  for 
they  invite  you  to  a  banquet  where  you  are  no 
\nsitant.  You  cannot  cheer  yourself  with  the 
prospect  of  to-morrow's  letter,  for  none  come 
on  Mondays.  You  cannot  count  those  endless 
vials  on  the  mantlepiece  with  any  hope  of 
making  a  variation  in  their  numbers.  You  have 
counted  your  spiders  :  your  Bastile  is  exhausted. 
You  sit  and  deliberately  curse  your  hard  exile 
from  all  familiar  sights  and  sounds.  Old  Rank- 
ing poking  in  his  head  unexpectedly  would 


2o8  Cbarles  Uamb's 

just  now  be  as  good  to  you  as  Grimaldi.  Any- 
thing to  deliver  you  from  this  intolerable  weight 
oi ennui.  You  are  too  ill  to  shake  it  off:  not 
ill  enough  to  submit  to  it,  and  to  lie  down  as  a 
Lamb  under  it.  The  tyranny  of  sickness  is 
nothing  to  the  cruelty  of  convalescence  :  't  is  to 
have  thirty  tyrants  for  one.  That  pattering  rain 
drops  on  your  brain.  You  '11  be  w^orse  after 
dinner,  for  you  must  dine  at  one  to-day  that 
Betty  may  go  to  afternoon  service.  She  insists 
upon  having  her  chopped  hay.  And  then  when 
she  goes  out,  who  was  something  to  you,  some- 
thing to  speak  to — what  an  interminable  after- 
noon you  '11  have  to  go  through.  You  can't  break 
yourself  from  your  locality  :  you  cannot  say, 
"to-morrow  morning  I  set  off  for  Banstead," 
for  you  are  booked  for  Wednesday.  Foreseeing 
this,  I  thought  a  cheerful  letter  would  come  in 
opportunely.  If  any  of  the  little  topics  for 
mirth  I  have  thought  upon  should  serve  you 
in  this  utter  extinguishment  of  sunshine,  to 
make  you  a  little  merry,  I  shall  have  had  my 
ends.  I  love  to  make  things  comfortable.  .  .  . 
That  which  is  scratched  out  was  the  most  ma- 


IDClft  anD  TICli6&om  209 

terial  thing  I  had  to  say,  but  on  maturer  thoughts 
I  defer  it.— [7b/.  B.  Dibdin,  Sept.  p,  1826.'] 

The  Fiery  Age. — Dear  Dj-er— I  should  have 
written  before  to  thank  you  for  your  kind  letter, 
written  with  your  own  hand.  It  glads  us  to  see 
your  writing.  It  will  give  you  pleasure  to  hear 
that  after  so  much  illness  we  are  in  tolerable 
health  and  spirits  once  more.  Poor  Bnfield, 
that  has  been  so  peaceable  hitherto,  has  caught 
the  inflammatory  fever  ;  the  tokens  are  upon 
her  ;  and  a  great  fire  was  blazing  last  night  in 
the  bams  and  haystacks  of  a  farmer,  about  half 
a  mile  from  us.  Where  will  these  things  end  ? 
There  is  no  doubt  of  its  being  the  work  of  some 
ill-disposed  rustic  ;  but  how  is  he  to  be  dis- 
covered ?  They  go  to  work  in  the  dark  with 
strange  chemical  preparations,  unknown  to  our 
forefathers.  There  is  not  even  a  dark  lantern, 
to  have  a  chance  of  detecting  these  Gux  Fauxes. 
We  are  past  the  iron  age,  and  are  got  into  the 
fiery  age,  undreamed  of  by  Ovid.  You  are 
lucky  in  Clifibrd'c  Inn,  where  I  think  you  have 
few  ricks  or  stacks  worth  the  burning.     Pray, 


2IO  Cbarlee  Xamb's 


keep  as  little  corn  by  you  as  you  can  for  fear 
of  the  worst.  It  was  never  good  times  in  Eng- 
land since  the  poor  began  to  speculate  upon 
their  condition.  Formerly  they  jogged  on  with 
as  little  reflection  as  horses.  The  whistling 
plough-man  went  cheek  by  jowl  with  his. — [7b 
George  Dyer,  Dec.  20,  18 jo.  ] 

A  Character  Sketch. — Our  providers  are 
an  honest  pair,  Dame  W[estwood]  and  her  hus- 
band. He,  when  the  light  of  prosperity  shined 
on  them,  a  moderately  thriving  haberdasher, 
within  Bow  bells,  retired  since  with  something 
under  a  competence  ;  writes  himself  parcel  gen- 
tleman ;  hath  borne  parish  offices ;  sings  fine 
sea-songs  at  threescore  and  ten  ;  sighs  only  now 
and  then  when  he  thinks  that  he  has  a  son  on 
his  hands,  about  fifteen,  whom  he  finds  a  diffi- 
culty in  getting  out  into  the  world,  and  then 
checks  a  sigh  with  muttering,  as  I  once  heard 
him  prettily,  not  meaning  to  be  heard,  "I  have 
married  my  daughter,  however";  takes  the 
weather  as  it  comes ;  cutsides  it  to  town  in 
severest  season  :  and  o'  winter  nights  tells  old 


limit  anD  misDom 


stories  not  tending  to  literature  (how  comfort- 
able to  author-rid  folks  !),  and  has  one  anecdote, 
upon  which  and  about  forty  pounds  a  year  he 
seems  to  have  retired  in  green  old  age.  It  was 
how  he  was  a  rider  in  his  youth,  travelling  for 
shops,  and  once  (not  to  balk  his  employer's 
bargains)  on  a  sweltering  day  in  August,  rode 
foaming  into  Dunstable  upon  a  mad  horse,  to 
the  dismay  and  expostulatory  wonderment 
of  innkeepers,  ostlers,  etc.,  who  declared  they 
would  not  have  bestrid  the  beast  to  win  the 
Derby.  Understand,  the  creature  galled  to 
death  and  desperation  by  gad-flies,  cormorant- 
winged,  worse  than  beset  Inachus'  daughter. 
This  he  tells,  this  he  brindles  and  burnishes  on 
a  Winter's  eve  ;  't  is  his  star  of  set  glory,  his 
rejuvenescence,  to  descant  upon.  Far  from  me 
be  it  {dii  avertant)  to  look  a  gift  story  in 
the  mouth,  or  cruelly  to  surmise  (as  those  who 
doubt  the  plunge  of  Curtius)  that  the  insepa- 
rate  conjuncture  of  man  and  beast,  the  cen- 
taur-phenomenon that  staggered  all  Dunstable, 
might  have  been  the  effect  of  unromantic  ne- 
cessity ;  that  the  horse-part  carried  the  reason- 


Cbarles  Xamb's 


ing,  willy  nilly ;  that  needs  must  when  such  a 
devil  drove  ;  that  certain  spiral  configurations 
in  the  frame  of  T[homas]  W[estwood]  un- 
friendly to  alighting,  made  the  alliance  more 
forcible  than  voluntary.  Let  him  enjoy  his 
fame  for  me,  nor  let  me  hint  a  whisper  that 
shall  dismount  Bellerophon.  But  in  case  he 
was  an  involuntary  martyr,  yet  if  in  the  fiery 
conflict  he  buckled  the  soul  of  a  constant  haber- 
dasher to  him,  and  adopted  his  flames,  let  acci- 
dent and  him  share  the  glory.  You  would 
all  like  Thomas  Westwood. — [To  Woj^dsworth, 
Jan.  22,  1830.1 

A  Gift  from  Her  Betrothed.— For  God's 
sake  give  Emma  no  more  watches  ;  one  has 
turned  her  head.  She  is  arrogant  and  insult- 
ing. She  said  something  very  unpleasant  to 
our  old  clock  in  the  passage,  as  if  he  did  not 
keep  time,  and  yet  he  had  made  her  no  appoint- 
ment. She  takes  it  out  every  instant  to  look 
at  the  moment-hand.  She  lugs  us  out  into  the 
field  because  there  the  bird-boys  ask  you,  "  Pray, 
sir,  can  you  tell  us  what's  o'clock  ?"  and  she  an 


mit  anD  limiaDom  213 


swers  them  punctually.  She  loses  all  her  time 
looking  to  see  **  what  the  time  is.  "  I  over- 
heard her  whispering,  "Just  so  many  hours,, 
minutes,  etc.,  to  Tuesday  ;  I  think  St.  George's 
goes  too  slow.  "  This  little  present  of  time  ! — 
why, — 'tis  Eternity  to  her ! 

What  can  make  her  so  fond  of  a  gingerbread 
watch  ? 

She  has  spoiled  some  of  the  movements. 
Between  ourselves,  she  has  kissed  away  *'  half- 
past  twelve,"  which  I  suppose  to  be  the  canoni- 
cal hour  in  Hanover  Square. 

Well,  if  "love  me  love  my  watch  "  answers, 
she  will  keep  time  to  you. — [  To  3Ioxon,  July 
24.  1^33 ''\ 

A  Painting— BEiySHAZZAR.— Martin's  "Bel- 
shazzar"  (the  picture)  I  have  seen.  Its  archi- 
tectural eflfect  is  stupendous ;  but  the  human 
figures,  the  squalling  contorted  little  antics  that 
are  playing  at  being  frightened,  like  children 
at  a  sham  ghost,  who  half  know  it  to  be  a  mask, 
are  detestable.  Then  the  letters  are  nothing 
more  than  a  transparency  lighted  up,  such  as  a 


214  Cbarles  Xamb's 

lord  might  order  to  be  lit  up  ou  a  sudden  at  a 
Christmas  gambol,  to  scare  the  ladies.  The  type 
is  as  plain  as  Baskerville's  :  they  should  have 
been  dim,  full  of  mystery,  letters  to  the  mind 
rather  than  the  eye. 

Rembrandt  has  painted  only  Belshazzar  and 
a  courtier  or  two  (taking  a  part  of  the  banquet 
for  the  whole),  not  fribbled  out  a  mob  of  fine 
folks.  Then  everything  is  so  distinct,  to  the 
very  necklaces,  and  that  foolish  little  prophet. 
What  one  point  is  there  of  interest  ?  The  idea 
of  such  a  subject  is,  that  you  the  spectator 
should  see  nothing  but  what  at  the  time  you 
would  have  seen, — the  handy  and  the  King, — 
not  to  be  at  leisure  to  make  tailor-remarks  on 
the  dresses,  or.  Dr.  Kitchener-like,  to  examine 
the  good  things  at  table. 

Just  such  a  confused  piece  is  his  **  Joshua,  " 
frittered  into  a  thousand  fragments,  little  armies 
here,  little  armies  there — you  should  see  only 
the  Sun  and  Joshua.  If  I  remember,  he  has 
not  left  out  that  luminary  entirely ;  but  for 
Joshua,  I  was  ten  minutes  a-finding  him  out. 
Still  he  is  showy  in  all  that  is  not  the  human 


Mit  anD  "QClisDom  215 

figure  or  the  preternatural  interest :  but  the  first 
are  below  a  drawing-school  girl's  attainment, 
and  the  last  is  a  phantasmagoric  trick, — "  Now 
you  shall  see  what  you  shall  see,  dare  is  Bal- 
shazar  and  dare  is  Daniel.  " — [To  Barton,  June 
II,  182  7. '\ 

Georgk  Dykr's  Tender  Conscience.— G. 
was  born,  I  verily  think,  without  original  sin,  but 
chooses  to  have  a  conscience,  as  every  Christian 
gentleman  should  have ;  his  dear  old  face  is  in- 
susceptible of  the  twist  they  call  a  sneer,  yet  he 
is  apprehensive  of  being  suspected  of  that  ugly 
appearance.  When  he  makes  a  compliment, 
he  thinks  he  has  given  an  affront, — a  name  is 
personality. — [To  Moxon,  Feb.,  ^Sji."} 

The  EviLvS  of  Ii^lustratixg  Shakespeare. 
— But  I  am  jealous  of  the  combination  of  the 
sister  arts.  Let  them  sparkle  apart.  What  in- 
jury (short  of  the  theatres)  did  not  Boydell's 
Shakespeare  Gallery  do  me  with  Shakespeare  ? 
to  have  Opie's  Shakespeare,  Northcote's  Shake- 
speare, light-headed  Fuseli's  Shakespeare, 
heavy-headed  Romney's  Shakespeare,  wooden- 


2i6  Cbarles  Xamb's 

headed  West's  (though  he  did  the  best  in  Lear), 
deaf-headed  Reynolds'  Shakespeare,  instead  of 
my  and  everybody's  Shaksepeare  ;  to  be  tied 
down  to  an  authentic  face  of  Juliet !  to  have 
Imogen's  portrait ;  to  confine  the  illimitable  ! 
— [To  Rogers,  Dec,  iS33.'\ 

Hood  the  Prince  of  Wits.  —  Perhaps 
Rogers  would  smile  at  this.  A  pert,  half  chemist, 
half  apothecary  in  our  town  who  smatters  of 
literature,  and  is  immeasurably  unlettered,  said 
tome,  "Pray,  sir,  may  not  Hood  be  reckoned 
the  Prince  of  Wits  in  the  present  day?"  To 
which  I  assenting,  he  adds,  "I  had  always 
thought  that  Rogers  had  been  reckon' d  the 
Prince  of  Wits,  but  I  suppose  that  now  Mr. 
Hood  has  the  better  title  to  that  appellation.  " 

To  which  I  replied,  that  Mr.  R- had  wit  with 

much  better  qualities,  but  did  not  aspire  to  the 
principality.  He  had  taken  all  the  puns  manu- 
factured in  John  Bull  for  our  friend,  in  sad  and 
Stupid  earnest. — [7b  Moxon,  May,  iSjj.'] 

A  MeasureIvESS  Famii^y. — Next,  I  forgot  to 
tell  you  I  knew  all  your  Welsh  annoyances,  the 


Wiit  atiD  'OmiBDom  217 

measureless  B 's.    I  knew  a  quarter  of  a  mile 

of  them.  Seventeen  brothers  and  sixteen  sisters, 
as  they  appear  to  me  in  memory.  There  was 
one  of  them  that  used  to  fix  his  long  legs  on 
my  fender,  and  tell  a  tale  of  a  shark  every 
night,  endless,  immortal.  How  have  I  grudged 
the  salt-sea  ravener  not  having  had  his  gorge  of 
him  !  The  shortest  of  the  daughters  measured 
five  foot  eleven  without  her  shoes.  Well,  some 
day  we  may  confer  about  them.  But  they  were 
tall.  Truly,  I  have  discover'd  the  longitude. — 
ITo  Landor,  April g,  /8j2.'] 

On  Chirography. —You  always  wrote  hiero- 
glyphically,  yet  not  to  come  up  to  the  mystical 
notations  and  conjuring  characters  of  Dr.  Parr. 
You  never  wrote  what  I  call  a  schoolmaster's 
hand,  like  Mrs.  Clark  ;  nor  a  woman's  hand, 
like  Southey  ;  nor  a  missal  hand,  like  Porson  ; 
nor  an  all-of-the-wrong-side  sloping  hand,  like 
Miss  Hayes;  nor  a  dogmatic,  Mede-and-Persian, 
peremptory  hand,  like  Rickman;  but  you  ever 
wrote  what  I  call  a  Grecian's  hand ;  what  the 
Grecians  write  (or  used)  at  Christ's  Hospital ; 


2i8  Cbarles  Xamb's 

such  as  Whalley  would  have  admired,  and  Boyer 
have  applauded,  but  Smith  or  Atwood  (writing- 
masters)  would  have  horsed  you  for.  Your  boy- 
of-genius  hand  and  your  mercantile  hand  are 
various.  By  your  flourishes,  I  should  think  you 
never  learned  to  make  eagles  or  corkscrews,  or 
flourish  the  governors'  names  in  the  writing- 
school  ;  and  by  the  tenor  and  cut  of  your 
letters,  I  suspect  you  were  never  in  it  at  all. 
By  the  length  of  this  scrawl  you  will  think  I 
have  a  design  upon  your  optics ;  but  I  have 
writ  as  large  as  I  could,  out  of  respect  to  them  ; 
too  large,  indeed,  for  beauty.  Mine  is  a  sort 
of  deputy  Grecian's  hand ;  a  httle  better,  and 
more  of  a  worldly  hand,  than  a  Grecian's,  but 
still  remote  from  the  mercantile.  —  ITo  Dyer, 
Feb.  22,  i83i.'\ 

Edward  Irving's  Madness. — I  was  over  St. 
Luke's  the  other  day  with  my  friend  Tuthill, 
and  mightily  pleased  with  one  of  his  contri- 
vances for  the  comfort  and  amelioration  of  the 
students.  They  have  double  cells,  in  which  a 
pair  may  lie  feet  to  feet  horizontally,  and  chat 


ma  anD  MisDom  219 


the  time  away  as  rationally  as  they  can.  It 
must  certainly  be  more  sociable  for  them  these 
warm,  raving  nights.  The  right-hand  truckle 
in  one  of  these  friendly  recesses,  at  present 
vacant,  was  preparing,  I  understood,  for  Mr. 
Irving.  Poor  fellow  !  it  is  time  he  removed 
from  Pentonville.  I  followed  him  as  far  as  to 
Highbury  the  other  day,  with  a  mob  at  his 
heels,  calling  out  upon  Brmigiddon,  who  I  sup- 
pose is  some  Scotch  moderator.  He  squinted 
out  his  favorite  eye  last  Friday,  in  the  fury  of 
possession,  upon  a  poor  woman's  shoulders  that 
was  crying  matches,  and  has  not  missed  it.  The 
companion  truck,  as  far  as  I  could  measure  it 
with  my  eye,  would  conveniently  fit  a  person 
about  the  length  of  Coleridge,  allowing  for  a 
reasonable  drawing  up  of  the  feet,  not  at  all 
painful.  Does  he  talk  of  moving  this  quarter  ? — 
iTo  Gil/man,  March  8,  iSjo.} 

Odd  Be^dfeIvI^ows. — My  bedfellows  are  cough 
and  cramp ;  we  sleep  three  in  a  bed.  —  [  Tb 
Moxon,  April  27, 1833.1 


220  Cbarle6  Xamb's 

ANECDOTES. 

When  a  boy  Ivamb  was  walking  one  day 
with  Mary  in  a  church-yard,  and  he  noticed 
that  all  the  tombstones  were  inscribed  with 
words  of  praise  for  the  departed.  "Mary," 
said  he,  "where  do  all  the  naughty  people 
lie?" 

Lamb's  CrkED. — "  I  am  a  Christian,  English- 
man, Templar.  God  help  me  when  I  come  to 
put  off  these  snug  relations  and  to  get  abroad 
into  the  world  to  come,  I  shall  be  like  the 
*crow  on  the  sand,'  as  Wordsworth  has  it." 

He  especially  attached  himself  to  any  violent 
symptoms  of  human  nature.  Being  in  a  picture- 
gallery,  he  observed  a  stout  sailor  in  towering 
disgust  at  one  of  the  old  masters,  spit  his 
tobacco-juice  at  it,  and  swear,  with  an  exple- 
tive, that  he  could  do  better  himself.  The 
honest  opinion  honestly  expressed,  the  truth 
and  vigor  of  the  man,  delighted  Lamb,  and  he 
rushed  up  to  him  to  shake  hands.     Whenever 


limit  anD  TimisDom 


the  sailor,  after  that,  wrote  to  his  friends  in 
London,  he  wished  to  be  particularly  remem- 
bered to  Mr.  Charles  Lamb,  who  would  n't  be 
humbugged  about  an  old  painting. 

On    another   occasion    he   declared   that   he 

hated  Mr.  ,  "but  you  don't  know  him." 

'*That  's  the  reason  I  hate  him,  I  never  could 
hate  anybody  I  knew." 

Irony. — He  told  Mr.  Gary,  "he  was  a  good 
parson — not,  indeed,  as  good  as  Parson  Adams, 
but  perhaps  about  as  good  as  Doctor  Primrose." 

One  day  he  expressed  his  deep  satisfaction  at 
the  death  of  an  old  woman,  "She  has  left  me 
thirty  pounds  a  year  !  "  He  did  not  say  that  it 
was  he  himself  who  had  paid  her  this  annuity 
for  many  years  out  of  his  hard-earned  and 
modest  income. 

Lamb  once  explained  the  term  "  compound," 
(in  India  House  language,  the  name  applied  to 
the  room  he  and  his  fellow-clerks  worked  in) 
to  mean  "a  collection  of  simples," 


Cbarles  Xamb*3 


Humorous  Epitaphs. — The  following  epi- 
taphs were  found  in  Lamb's  desk  after  his 
leaving  the  India  house,  by  a  young  man, 
one  of  the  clerks,  named  Fraschini.  The 
first  refers  to  a  clerk  who  was  in  the  India 
office  with  Lamb,  the  second  to  an  old  invalid 
officer  of  the  British  Infantry  who  eked  out 
miserable  half-pay  as  a  copyist  in  the  military 
department.  The  third  on  a  certain  Captain 
Sturms,  and  the  last  on  Mrs.  Dix. 

"  Here  lies  the  body  of  Timothy  Wagstaff, 
Who  was  once  as  tall  and  straight  as  a  flagstaff; 
But  now  that  he  's  gone  to  another  world, 
His  staff  is  broken  and  his  flag  is  furled." 


The  epitaph  on  Captain  Matthew  Day,  of  the 
20th  Foot,  ran  as  follows  : 

"  Beneath  this  slab  lies  Matthew  Day, 
If  his  body  had  not  been  snatched  away 

To  be  by  science  dissected  : 
Should  it  have  gone,  one  thing  is  clear  ; 
His  soul  the  last  trump  is  sure  to  hear. 

And  thus  be  resurrected." 


•Qmtt  an&  misCJom  223 

Captain  Sturms  was  hardly  served  any  better, 

"  Here  lies  the  body  of  Captain  Sturms, 
Once  '  food  for  powder  '  now  for  worms. 
At  the  battle  of  Meida  he  lost  his  legs, 
And  stumped  about  on  wooden  pegs. 
Naught  cares  he  now  for  such  worthless  things — 
He  was  borne  to  heaven  on  Angels'  wings." 

The  next  was  endorsed 

"On  Tom  Dix's  Mother. 

"  a  git  the  remains  of  Margaret  Dix, 
Who  was  young  in  old  age  I  ween, 
Though  Envy  with  malice  cried  '  seventy-six,' 
The  Graces  declared  her  nineteen." 

It  should  be  explained  that  Mrs.  Dix  was 
born  on  Feb.  29,  (leap  year)  and  thus  had  only 
one  birthday  every  four  years.  Consequently 
by  the  time  she  had  completed  her  seventy- 
sixth  j^ear  her  nativity  had  been  celebrated 
only  nineteen  times. 

The  medical  officer  of  the  India  House  was 
not  held  professionally,  in  much  respect.  Here 
is  Qijeu  de  mot  on  him. 


224  Cbarles  Xamb's 

"To  the  memory  of  Dr.  Onesimus  Drake 
Who  forced  good,  people  his  drugs  to  take- 
No  wonder  his  patients  were  oft  on  the  rack, 
For  this  '  duck  of  a  man  '  was  a  terrible  quack." 

Lamb's  Propensity  to  Mystify— in  Criti- 
cising ' '  The  Ancient  Mariner.  '  '—At  length, 
•when  he  had  given  utterance  to  some  ferocious 
canon  of  judgment,  which  seemed  to  question 
the  entire  value  of  the  poem,  I  said,  perspiring, 
(I  dare  say),  in  this  detestable  crisis — "  But  Mr, 
lyamb,  good  heavens  !  how  is  it  possible  you 
can  allow  yourself  in  such  opinions  ?  What 
instance  could  you  bring  from  the  poem  that 
would  bear  you  out  in  these  insinuations  ? " 
**  Instances  !  "  said  Lamb  ;  "  Oh,  I  '11  instance 
you,  if  you  come  to  that.  Instance,  indeed  ! 
Pray,  what  do  you  say  to  this 

"  '  The  many  men  so  beautiful, 
And  they  all  dead  did  lie  '  ? 

So  beautiful,  indeed  !  Beautiful !  Just  think  of 
such  a  gang  of  Wapping  vagabonds,  all  covered 
with  pitch  and  chewing  tobacco  ;  and  the  old 
gentleman  himself — what  do  you  call  him? — 
the  bright-eyed   fellow?"    What  more   might 


"Mit  auD  misDom  225 

follow,  I  never  heard  ;  for,  at  this  point,  in  a 
perfect  rapture  of  horror,  I  raised  my  hands — 
both  hands — to  both  ears  ;  and  without  stop- 
ping to  think  or  to  apologize,  I  endeavored  to 
restore  equanimity  to  my  disturbed  sensibili- 
ties, by  shutting  out  all  further  knowledge  of 
Lamb's  impieties. — [De  Ouinay's  Recollections 
of  Lamb. '\ 

CharIvKS  Lamb  and  the  Beggar. — "Pray 
your  honor  relieve  me, ' '  said  a  poor  beadswoman 
to  my  friend,  one  day.  "  I  have  seen  better 
days." 

"  So  have  I,  my  good  woman,"  retorted  he, 
looking  up  at  the  welkin,  which  was  just  then 
threatening  a  storm  ;  and  the  jist  (he  will  have 
it)  was  as  good  to  the  beggar  as  a  testor. — 
\^From  the  Decay  of  Beg  gars. '\ 

"There   is  M who  goes  about  dropping 

his  good  things  as  an  ostrich  laj-s  her  eggs, 
without  caring  what  becomes  of  them." 

Lamb  once  alluded  to  a  book  called  A  Day 
hi  Stowe  Gardens^  that  it  was  "  a  day  ill- 
bestowed." 


226  Cbarles  Xamb's 


IvAMB  AND  THE  PuDDiNG. — It  was  a  dinner 
at  Gillman's  at  which  Leslie  was  present ; 
and  the  stage-coach  was  coming  home  filled 
with  guests,  when  an  outside  passenger  put 
the  question,  "All  full  inside  ?  "  "We  can 
conceive  the  merriment  within  when  Lamb 
replied,  "Well  that  last  bit  of  Gillman's  pud- 
ding did  the  business  for  me." 

Spent  the  evening  at  Lamb's,  when  I  went 
in,  they,  (Charles  and  his  sister)  were  alone, 
playing  at  cards  together.  I  took  up  a  book 
on  the  table — Almacfs — and  Lamb  said,  "  Ay, 
that  must  be  all  max  to  the  lovers  of  scandal." 
— \_P.  G.  Patmore's  My  Friends  and  Acquaint- 
ances. ] 

We  spoke  of  L.  E.  L.,  and  Lamb  said,  "If 
she  belonged  to  me,  I  would  lock  her  up  and 
feed  her  on  bread  and  water  till  she  left  off 
writing  poetry.  A  female  poet,  or  female 
author  of  any  kind,  ranks  below  an  actress,  I 
think.— [/(^zoT.] 

H.  C.  R.   came  in  about  half-past  eight  and 


•QCllt  ant)  lKai6C)om  227 

put  a  stop  to  all  further  conversation^keeping 
all  the  talk  to  himsQK— [/did.] 

Speaking  of  some  German  story,  in  which  a 
man  is  made  to  meet  himself — he  himself  hav- 
ing changed  forms  with  someone  else — the  talk 
turned  on  what  we  should  think  of  ourselves, 
if  we  could  see  ourselves  without  knowing  that 
it  was  ourselves.  Robinson  said  that  he  had 
all  his  life  felt  a  sort  of  horror  come  over  him 
every  time  he  caught  sight  of  his  own  face  in 
the  glass  ;  and  that  he  was  almost  afraid  to 
shave  himself  for  the  same  reason.  He  said 
that  he  often  wondered  how  anybody  could 
sustain  an  intimacy  with,  much  less  a  friend- 
ship for,  a  man  with  such  a  face.  Lamb  said, 
"  I  hope  you  have  mercy  on  the  barbers  and 
always  shave  yourself." — [Ibid.] 

was   mentioned,    and   Lamb   said    he 

seemed  to  him  a  sort  of  L.  B.  L.  in  pantaloons. 
—[Idid.-\ 

"Believe  me,  the  best  acid,"  he  said  to  a 
friend,  *'is  assiduity." — lldzd.} 


228  Cbarlee  Xamb's 

He  was  to  meet  the  gentleman  (a  poet)  at 
dinner,  and  the  poems  were  shown  to  Lamb  a 
little  before  the  author's  arrival.  When  he 
came  he  proved  to  be  empty  and  conceited. 
During  dinner  Lamb  fell  into  the  delightful 
drollery  of  saying  now  and  again,  *'That 
reminds  me  of  some  verses  I  wrote  when  I  was 
very  young,"  and  then  quoted  a  line  or  two, 
which  he  recollected  from  the  gentleman's  book, 
to  the  latter's  amazement  and  indignation. 
Lamb,  immensely  diverted,  capped  it  all  by 
introducing  the  first  lines  of  Paradise  Lost,  "  Of 
man's  first  disobedience,"  as  also  written  by  him- 
self, which  actually  brought  the  gentleman  on 
his  feet  bursting  with  rage.  He  said  he  had  sat 
by  and  allowed  his  own  "little  verses"  to  be 
taken  without  protest,  but  he  could  not  endure 
to  see  Milton  pillaged. — \_Ibid.'\ 

That  was  a  good-natured  action — his  sitting 
to  a  friend  *'  for  a  whole  series  of  British 
Admirals  !  "  They  were  wanted  as  illustrations 
for  some  periodical,  and  he  was  willing  to  be 
useful  as  a  lay  figure. — \_Ibid.'\ 


mit  anb  miebom  229 

He  cared  more,  he  said  "  for  Men  Sects,  than 
for  Insects." — [Idid.l 

Hazlitt  took  his  son  to  Ivamb's  one  day,  and 
expected  to  be  asked  to  dinner.  lyamb  said  he 
was  sorry,  but  he  had  nothing  in  the  house  but 
cold  kid  to  offer  them.  "Cold  kid!"  Hazlitt 
cried  ;  and  Lamb  stuck  to  it  that  that  was  all. 
Hazlitt  went  away  at  last  in  a  rage,  leaving  his 
son  behind,  and  adjourned  to  the  Reynells, 
where  he  dined  off  cold  lamb.  His  son  joined 
him  when  the  meal  was  about  over,  and  ob- 
served that  he  thought  Lamb's  roast  beef  better 
than  this.  *'  Roast  dee//  He  told  me  he  had 
only  cold  kid  !  "  "Oh,  that  was  his  fun  !  "  But 
Hazlitt  thought  it  was  past  a  ]o\ie.—{^HazliW s 
Charles  and  Mary  Lamb.'] 

I  have  been  straying  away  from  the  im- 
mediate subject,  but  I  must  add  something 
more.  Towards  the  last.  Lamb  appears  to  have 
enjoyed,  in  consideration  of  the  length  of  his 
service,  certain  privileges,  of  which,  according 
to  tradition  I  am  about  to  notice,  he  did  not 
neglect  to  avail  himself     A  story,  for  the  truth 


230  Cbarles  Xamb*6 


of  whicli  I  must  decline  to  be  responsible,  runs 
to  the  effect  that  on  one  occasion  the  head  of 
the  office  complained  to  Lamb  of  the  rather  ex- 
cessive irregularity  of  his  attendance.  "Really, 
Mr.  Lamb,  you  come  very  late  !  "  observed  the 
official.  **  Yes — yes,"  replied  Mr.  Lamb,  with 
his  habitual  stammer,  "  b — but  consi — sider  how 
ear — early  I  go." — [/did.'] 

A  Dinner  at  Hood's. — The  evening  was 
concluded  by  a  supper,  one  of  those  elegant 
little  social  repasts  which  Flemish  artists 
delight  to  paint ;  so  fresh  the  fruit,  so  tempting 
the  viands,  and  all  so  exquisitely  arranged  by 
the  very  hand  of  taste.  .  .  .  Mr.  Lamb 
oddly  walked  all  round  the  table,  looking 
closely  at  any  dish  that  struck  his  fancy  before 
he  would  decide  where  to  sit,  telling  Mrs.  Hood 
that  he  would  by  that  means  know  how  to 
select  some  dish  that  was  difficult  to  carve,  and 
take  the  trouble  off  her  hands ;  accordingly, 
having  jested  in  this  manner,  he  placed  him- 
self with  great  deliberation  before  a  lobster- 
salad,  observing  i/iaf  was  the  thing.      On  her 


llClit  an&  limieOom  231 


asking  him  to  take  some  roast  fowl,  he  assented. 
"  What  part  shall  I  help  you  to,  Mr.  Lamb?  " 
"Back,"  said  he,  quickly;  "I  always  prefer 
back."  My  husband  laid  down  his  knife  and 
fork,  and  looking  upward,  exclaimed:  "By 
heavens  !  I  could  not  have  believed  it,  if  any- 
body else  had  sworn  it."  "Believed  what?" 
said  kind  Mrs.  Hood,  anxiously,  coloring  to 
the  temples,  and  fancying  there  was  something 
amiss  in  the  piece  he  had  been  helped  to. 
"Believed  what?  why,  madam,  that  Charles 
Lamb  was  a  back-biter!"  Hood  gave  one  of 
his  short  quick  laughs,  gone  almost  ere  it  had 
come,  whilst  Lamb  went  off  into  a  loud  fit  of 
mirth,  exclaiming :  "  Now  that 's  devilish  good  ! 
I  '11  sup  with  you  to-morrow  night."  This 
eccentric  flight  made  everybody  very  merry, 
and  amidst  a  most  amusing  mixture  of  wit  and 
humor,  sense  and  nonsense,  we  feasted  mer- 
rily, amidst  jocose  health-drinking,  sentiments, 
speeches  and  songs.  .  .  .  Mr.  Lamb  on 
being  pressed  to  sing,  excused  himself  in  his 
own  peculiar  manner,  but  offered  to  pronounce 
a  Latin  eulogium  instead.      This  was  accepted, 


232  Cbarles  Xamb'6 

and  he  accordingly  stammered  forth  a  long 
string  of  Latin  words  ;  among  which,  as  the 
name  of  Mrs.  Hood  frequently  occurred,  we 
ladies  thought  it  was  in  praise  of  her.  The 
delivery  of  this  speech  occupied  about  five  min- 
utes. On  enquiring  of  a  gentleman  who  sat  next 
to  me  whether  Mr.  Lamb  was  praising  Mrs. 
Hood,  he  informed  me  that  was  b}'  no  means 
the  case,  the  eulogium  being  on  the  lobster- 
salad  ! — [Mrs.  BaUnanno's  Pen  and  Pe7icil.\ 

A  Visit  to  Mrs.  Bai.manxo.— On  the  fol- 
lowing night,  according  to  his  promise,  Mr. 
Lamb  honored  us  with  a  visit,  accompanied  by 
his  sister,  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Wood,  and  a  few  others 
hastily  gathered  together  for  the  occasion.  On 
entering  the  room,  Mr.  Lamb  seemed  to  have 
forgotten  that  any  previous  introduction  had 
taken  place.  "Allow  me,  madam,"  said  he, 
"  to  introduce  to  you,  viy  sister,  Mary  ;  she  's  a 
very  good  woman,  but  she  drinks  !  "  "  Charles, 
Charles,"  said  Miss  Lamb,  imploringly  (her  face 
at  the  same  time  covered  with  blushes)  "how 
can  you  say  such  a  thing?  "     "  Why,"  rejoined 


mit  auD  Mi6^om  233 

he,  "you  know  it  's  a  fact  ;  look  at  the  redness 
of  your  face.  Did  I  not  see  yon  in  your  cups  at 
nine  o'clock  this  morning?"  "  For  shame, 
Charles,"  returned  his  sister;  "what  will  our 
friends  think?"  "Don't  mind  him,  my  dear 
Miss  Lamb,"  said  Mrs.  Hood,  soothingly;  "I 
will  answer  that  the  cups  were  only  breakfast- 
cups  full  of  coffee." 

Seeming  much  delighted  with  the  mischief  he 
had  made,  he  turned  away,  and  began  talking 
quite  comfortably  on  indifferent  topics  to  some 
one  else.  For  my  own  part  I  could  not  help 
telling  Mrs.  Hood  Ilonged  to  shake  "  Charles." 
**  Oh,"  replied  she,  smiling,  "  Miss  Lamb  is  so 
used  to  his  unaccountable  ways  that  she  would 
be  miserable  without  them."  Once,  indeed,  as 
Mr.  Lamb  told  Hood,  "  having  really  gone  a  lit- 
tle too  far,"  and  seeing  her,  as  bethought,  quite 
hurt  and  offended,  he  determined  to  amend  his 
manners,  "  behave  politel}^  and  leave  off  joking 
altogether."  For  a  few  days  he  acted  up  to 
his  resolution,  behaving,  as  he  assured  Hood, 
"admirably;  and  what  do  you  think  I  got  for 
my  pains?"     "I  have  no  doubt,"  said  Hood, 


234  Cbarles  Xamb*5 


"  you  got  sincere  thanks."  "  Bless  you,  no  !  " 
rejoined  Lamb.  "Why,  Mary  did  nothing  but 
keep  bursting  into  tears  every  time  she  looked 
at  me,  and  when  I  asked  her  what  she  was  cry- 
ing for,  when  I  was  doing  all  I  could  to  please 
her,  she  blubbered  out :  '  You  're  changed, 
Charles,  you  're  changed  ;  what  have  I  done, 
that  you  should  treat  me  in  this  cruel  manner? ' 
'  Treat  you  !  I  thought  you  did  not  like  my 
jokes,  and  therefore  I  tried  to  please  you  by 
strangling  them  down.'  *  Oh,  oh,'  cried  she, 
sobbing  as  if  her  heart  would  break  ;  'joke 
again,  Charles — I  don't  know  you  in  this  man- 
ner. I  am  sure  I  should  die,  if  you  behaved  as 
you  have  done  for  the  last  few  days.'  So  you  see 
I  joke  for  her  good  "  ;  adding,  with  a  most  self- 
ish expression,  "it  saved  her  life  then,  anyhow." 
This  little  explanation  was  happily  illustrated 
the  next  moment,  when  Miss  Lamb,  still  in 
extreme  trepidation,  and  the  blush  yet  lingering 
on  her  cheeks,  happened  to  drop  her  handker- 
chief. She  did  not  observe  it,  but  her  brother, 
although  volubly  describing  some  pranks  of  his 
boyhood  to  a  little  knot  of  listeners,  stepped 


Mit  mt>  Mfa^om  235 


aside  and  handed  it  to  her,  with  a  look  that  said 
as  plainly  as  words  could  say,  "Forgive  me,  I 
love  you  well."  That  she  so  interpreted  it,  her 
pleased  and  happy  look  at  once  declared,  as 
with  glistening  eyes  she  sat  eagerly  listening  to 
the  tale  he  was  then  telling  ;  a  tale  which 
doubtless  she  had  heard  before,  ninety  and  nine 
times  at  least. — [Ibid.'] 

Haydon's  Memories  of  IvAmb.  —  In  the 
words  of  our  dear  departed  friend,  Charles 
Lamb,  "  You  good-for-nothing  old  Lake  Poet," 
what  has  become  of  you  ?  Do  you  remember  his 
saying  that  at  my  table  in  i8i9,with  "Jerusalem" 
towering  behind  us  in  the  painting-room,  and 
Keats  and  your  friend  Monkhouse  of  the  party  ? 
Do  you  remember  Lamb  voting  me  absent,  and 
then  making  a  speech  descanting  on  my  excel- 
lent port,  and  proposing  a  vote  of  thanks  ?  Do 
you  remember  his  then  voting  me  present  ? — I 
had  never  left  my  chair — and  informing  me  of 
what  had  been  done  during  my  retirement,  and 
hoping  I  was  duly  sensible  of  the  honor  ?  Do  you 
remember  the  Commissioner  (of  Stamps  and 


236  Cbarles  Xamb*6 

Taxes)  who  asked  you  if  you  did  not  think  Mil- 
ton a  great  genius,  and  Lamb  getting  up  and 
asking  leave  with  a  candle  to  examine  his 
phrenological  development  ?  Do  you  remember 
poor  dear  Lamb,  whenever  the  Commissioner 
was  equally  profound,  saying  :  "  My  son  John 
went  to  bed  with  his  breeches  on,"  to  the  dis- 
may of  the  learned  man  ?  Do  you  remember 
you  and  I  and  Monkhouse  getting  Lamb  out  of 
the  room  by  force,  and  putting  on  his  great 
coat,  he  reiterating  his  earnest  desire  to  ex- 
amine the  Commissioner's  skull?  And  don't 
you  remember  Keats  proposing  "Confusion  to 
the  memory  of  Newton,"  and  upon  your  insist- 
ing on  an  explanation  before  you  drank  it,  his 
saying:  "  Because  he  destroyed  the  poetry  of 
the  rainbow  by  reducing  it  to  a  prism."  Ah  ! 
my  dear  old  friend,  you  and  I  shall  never  see 
such  days  again  !  The  peaches  are  not  so  big 
as  they  were  in  our  days.  Many  were  the  im- 
mortal dinners  which  took  place  in  that  paint- 
ing-room, where  the  food  was  simple,  the  wine 
good,  and  the  poetry  first-rate.  Wordsworth, 
Milton,    Scott,    Charles  Lamb,  Hazlitt,  David 


mat  anD  MisDom  237 

Wilke,  Leigh  Hunt,  Talfourd,  Keats,  etc.,  etc., 
attended  my  summons  and  honored  my  table. 
— [Haydou  to  Wordsworth,  Oct.  i6,  1842.1 

COI^ERIDGE'S  MONOlvOGUE.  —The  story  of 
lyamb,  on  his  way  to  the  India  House,  leaving 
Coleridge  at  10  a.m.  in  a  doorway  talking  with 
his  eyes  shut,  and  coming  back  at  4  p.m.  to 
find  Coleridge  still  there  wdth  his  eyes  shut, 
talking  away,  as  he  thought,  to  Lamb,  I  have 
heard  my  father  declare,  though  only  on 
Lamb's  authority,  to  be  strictly  true  ;  but  then 
Lamb  delighted  in  such  fictions  about  his 
friends. — \^Ibid.  ] 

Mahomet  and  His  Defender.— Caroline 
Fox  mentions  a  visit  to  the  Sterlings,  Dec.  3d, 
1841.  Sterling  talked  of  Philip  van  Artevelde 
(Taylor,  Irving,  Coleridge,  and  Charles  Lamb 
being  together)  and  the  conversation  turning  on 
Mahomet,  Irving  reprobated  him  in  his  strongest 
manner  as  a  prince  of  impostors,  without  ear- 
nestness and  without  faith.  Taylor  thinking  him 
not  fairly  used,  defended  him  with  much  spirit. 
On  going  away,  Taylor  could  not  find  his  hat, 


238  Cbarles  Xamb's 

and  was  looking  about  for  it,  when  Charles 
Lamb  volunteered  his  assistance  with  the  query 
"  Taylor,  did  you  come  in  a  h-h-h-h-hat  or  a 
t-t-t-t-turban  ? " — [^Memories  of  Old  Friends.'\ 

Lamb's  Sympathy  for  Animai^s. — As  an 
instance  of  Charles  Lamb's  sympathy  with 
dumb  beasts,  two  friends  once  saw  him  get  up 
from  table,  while  they  were  dining  with  him 
and  his  sister  at  Enfield,  open  the  street-door, 
and  give  admittance  to  a  stray  donkey  into  the 
front  strip  of  garden,  where  there  was  a  grass- 
plot,  which  seemed  to  possess  more  attraction 
for  the  creature  than  the  short  turf  of  the  com- 
mon on  Chase-side  opposite  to  the  house  where 
the  Lambs  then  dwelt.  This  mixture  of  the 
humorous  in  manner  and  the  sympathic  in 
feeling  always  more  or  less  tinged  the  sayings 
and  doings  of  beloved  Charles  Lamb  ;  there  was 
a  constant  blending  of  the  overtly  whimsical 
expression  or  act  with  betrayed  inner  kindliness 
and  even  pathos  of  sentiment.  Beneath  this 
sudden  opening  of  his  gate  to  a  stray  donkey 
that  it  might  feast  on  his  garden  grass  while 


Wiit  mb  mietfom  239 


he  himself  ate  his  dinner,  possibly  lurked  some 
strong  sense  of  wanderers  unable  to  get  a  meal 
they  hungered  for  when  others  revelled  in 
plenty, — a  kind  of  pained  fancy  finding  vent 
in  playful  deed  or  speech,  that  frequently 
might  be  traced  by  those  who  enjoyed  his 
society. — \_Clarke's  Recollections  of  Writers.'] 

CowDEN  WITH  THK  Tuft.— Cowden  Clarke 
was  very  bald.  Lamb  called  him  playfully 
"  Cowden  with  the  Tuft."  One  evening,  after 
gazing  at  it  for  some  time  Lamb  suddenly  broke 
forth  *'  Gad,  Clarke,  what  whiskers  you  have 
behind  your  head." — [/did.] 

Lamb's  Whimsicai.  Candor.  —  He  was 
fond  of  trying  the  dispositions  of  those  with 
whom  he  associated  by  an  odd  speech  such  as 
this  ;  and  if  they  stood  the  test  pleasantly  and 
took  it  in  good  part,  he  liked  them  the  bet- 
ter ever  after.  One  time  the  Novellos  and 
Cowden  Clarkes  went  down  to  see  the  Lambs 
at  Enfield,  and  he  was  standing  by  his  book- 
shelves, talking  with  them  in  his  usual  delight- 
ful, cordial  way,  showing  them  some  precious 


240  Cbarles  Xamb's 

volume  lately  added  to  his  store,  a  neighbor 
chancing  to  come  in  to  remind  Charles  I^amb 
of  an  appointed  ramble,  he  excused  himself  by 
saying,  "You  see  I  have  some  troublesome 
people  just  come  down  from  town,  and  I  must 
stay  and  entertain  them ;  so  we  '11  take  our 
walk  together  to-morrow." — \_Ibid.'\ 

Another  time  when  the  Cowden  Clarkes  were 
staying  a  few  days  at  Enfield  with  Charles 
Lamb  and  his  sister,  they,  having  accepted  an 
invitation  to  spend  the  evening  and  have  a 
game  of  whist  at  a  lady-schoolmistress'  house 
there,  took  their  guest  with  them.  Charles 
Lamb,  giving  his  arm  to  "Victoria,"  left  her 
husband  to  escort  Mary  Lamb,  who  walked 
rather  more  slowly  than  her  brother.  On  arriv- 
ing first  at  the  house  of  the  somewhat  prim  and 
formal  hostess,  Charles  Lamb,  bringing  his 
young  visitor  into  the  room,  introduced  her  by 

saying,  "  Mrs. ,  I  've  brought  you  the  wife 

of  the  man  who  mortally  hates  your  husband  "  ; 
and  when  the  lady  replied  by  a  polite  inquiry 
after  Miss  Lamb,  hoping  she  was  quite  well, 

i6 


vmit  anD  misOom  241 

Charles  Lamb  said,  "She  has  a  terrible  fit  o' 
toothache,  and  was  obliged  to  stay  at  home  this 
evening,  so  Mr.  Cowden  Clarke  remained  there 
to  keep  her  company."  Then  the  lingerers 
entering  he  went  on  to  say,  "Mrs  Cowden 
Clarke  has  been  telling  me,  as  we  came  along, 
that  she  hopes  3'ou  have  sprats  for  supper  this 
evening."  The  bewildered  glance  of  the  lady 
of  the  house  at  Mary  Lamb  and  her  walking- 
companion,  her  politely  stifled  dismay  at  the 
mention  of  so  vulgar  a  dish,  contrasted  with 
Victoria's  smile  of  enjoyment  at  his  whimsical 
words,  were  precisely  the  kind  of  things  that 
Charles  Lamb  liked  and  chuckled  over. — l/ozd.l 

Lamb's  Love  for  Children.— When  Wm. 
Etty  returned  as  a  young  artist  student  from 
Rome,  and  called  at  the  Novellos'  house,  it 
chanced  that  the  parents  were  from  home  ;  but 
the  children,  who  were  busily  employed  in 
fabricating  a  treat  of  home-made  hard-bake  (or 
toffy),  made  the  visitor  welcome  by  offering 
him  a  piece  of  their  just-finished  sweetmeat,  as 
an  appropriate  refection  after  his  long  walk  ; 


242  Cbarles  Xamb'5 

and  he  declared  that  it  was  the  most  veritable 
piece  of  spontaneous  hospitality  he  had  met 
with,  since  the  children  gave  him  what  they 
thought  most  delicious  and  best  worthy  of 
acceptance. 

Charles  Lamb  so  heartily  shared  this  opinion 
of  the  subsequently  renowned  painter,  that  he 
bought  a  choice  condiment  in  the  shape  of  a 
jar  of  preserved  ginger,  for  the  little  Novellos' 
delectation  ;  and  when  some  oflScious  elder 
suggested  that  it  was  lost  upon  children,  and 
therefore  had  better  be  reserved  for  the  grown 
people,  Lamb  would  not  hear  of  the  transfer,  but 
insisted  that  children  were  excellent  judges  of 
good  things,  and  that  they  must  and  should 
have  the  cate  in  question.  He  was  right,  for 
long  did  the  remembrance  remain  in  the  family 
of  that  delicious  rarity,  and  of  the  mode  in 
which  "Mr.  Lamb"  stalked  up  and  down  the 
passage  with  a  mysterious  harberingering  look 
and  stride,  muttering  something  that  sounded 
like  conjuration,  holding  the  precious  jar  under 
his  arm,  and  feigning  to  have  found  it  stowed 
away  in  a  dark  chimney  somewhere  near. 


ma  atiD  Timi0Dom  243 


Another  characteristic  point  is  recalled  by 
a  concluding  sentence  of  this  letter.  On  one 
occasion — when  Charles  Lamb  and  his  admir- 
able sister,  Mary  Lamb,  had  been  accompanied 
"half  back  after  supper"  by  Mr.  and  Mrs. 
Novello,  Edward  Holmes,  and  Charles  Cowden 
Clarke,  between  Schackelwell  Green  and  Cole- 
brooke  Cottage,  beside  the  New  River  at  Is- 
lington, where  the  Lambs  then  lived,  the  whole 
party  interchanging  lively,  bright  talk  as  they 
passed  along  the  road  that  they  had  all  to 
themselves  at  that  late  hour — he  as  usual,  was 
the  noblest  of  the  talkers.  Arrived  at  the  usual 
parting  place,  Lamb  and  his  sister  walked  on 
a  few  steps  ;  and  then  suddenly  turning,  he 
shouted  out  after  his  late  companions,  in  a  tone 
that  startled  the  midnight  silence,  "You  are 
very  nice  people  ! "  sending  them  on  their 
way  home  in  happy  laughter  at  his  friendly 
oddity.— [/did.] 

The  City  Acquaintance. — Lamb,  at  the 
solicitation  of  a  city  acquaintance,  was  induced 
to  go  to  a  public  dinner,  but  stipulated  that  the 
latter  was  to  see  him  safely  home. 


244  Cbarles  Xamb's 


When  the  banquet  was  over,  Lamb  reminded 
his  friend  of  their  agreement.  ''But  where  do 
you  live  ?  "  asked  the  latter. 

"That  's  your  affair,"  said  Lamb;  "you 
undertook  to  see  me  home,  and  I  hold  you  to 
your  bargain."  His  friend,  not  liking  to  leave 
Lamb  to  find  his  way  alone,  had  no  choice  but 
to  take  a  hackney  coach,  drive  to  Islington, 
where  he  had  a  vague  notion  that  Lamb  resided, 
and  trust  to  inquiry  to  discover  his  house.  This 
he  accomplished,  but  only  after  some  hours  had 
been  thus  spent,  during  which  Lamb  dryly  and 
persistently  refused  to  give  the  slightest  clue  or 
information  in  aid  of  his  companion. 

Lamb's  Watch. — Lamb  was  one  of  the  most 
punctual  of  men,  although  he  never  carried  a 
watch.  A  friend  observing  the  absence  of  this 
usual  adjunct  of  a  business  man's  attire,  pre- 
sented him  with  a  new  gold  watch,  which  he 
accepted  and  carried  for  one  day  only.  A 
colleague  asked  Lamb  what  had  become  of 
it.  **  Pawned,"  was  the  reply.  He  had  actually 
pawned  the  watch,  finding  it  a  useless  en- 
cumbrance. 


mit  an&  misDom  245 

Ato'ENdanc^  at  Business.— On  oue  occa- 
sion Lamb  arrived  at  the  office  at  the  usual 
hour,  but  omitted  to  sign  the  attendance-book. 
About  mid-day  he  suddenly  paused  in  his  work, 
and  slapping  his  forehead  as  though  illuminated 
by  returning  recollection,  exclaimed  loudly  : 
"  Lamb  !  Lamb  !  I  have  it  "  ;  and  rushing  to  the 
attendance-book  interpolated  his  name. 

Excuse  for  a  HowDAY.-T-On  another  oc- 
casion Lamb  was  observed  to  enter  the  office 
hastily  and  in  an  excited  manner,  assumed  no 
doubt  for  the  occasion,  and  to  leave  by  an 
opposite  door.  He  appeared  no  more  that  day. 
He  stated  the  next  morning,  in  explanation, 
that  as  he  was  passing  through  Leadenhall 
Market  on  his  way  to  the  office  he  accidently 
trod  on  a  butcher's  heel.  "I  apologized,"  said 
Lamb,  "  to  the  butcher,  but  the  latter  retorted  : 
*Yes,    but  your  excuse  won't  cure  my  broken 

heel,  me,'  said  he,  seizing  his  knife,  *  I  '11 

have  it  out  of  you.'  "  Lamb  fled  from  the 
butcher,  and  in  dread  of  his  pursuit  dared  not 
remain  for  the  rest  of  the  day   at   the  India 


246  Cbaiies  Xamb's 

House.    This  story  was  accepted  as  a  humorous 
excuse  for  taking  a  holiday  without  leave. 

A  Sharp  Answer. — An  unpopular  head  of  a 
department  came  to  Lamb  one  day  and  inquired, 
"Pray,  Mr.  Lamb,  what  are  you  about?" 
"  Forty,  next  birthday,"  said  Lamb.  "  I  don't 
like  your  answer,"  said  his  chief.  "Nor  I  your 
question,"  was  Lamb's  reply. 

Hunt's  Characterization  of  Lamb.  — 
His  humor  and  his  knowledge  both,  are 
those  of  Hamlet,  of  Moliere,  of  Carlin,  who 
shook  a  city  with  laughter,  and,  in  order  to 
divert  his  melancholy,  was  recommended  to  go 
and  hear  himself.  Yet  he  extracts  a  real 
pleasure  out  of  his  jokes,  because  good-hearted- 
ness  retains  that  privilege,  when  it  fails  in 
everything  else.  I  should  say  he  condescended 
to  be  a  punster,  if  condescension  were  a  word 
befitting  wisdom  like  his.  Being  told  that 
somebody  had  lampooned  him,  he  said,  "Very 
well ;  I  '11  Lamb-pun  him." — [Lord  Byron  and 
His  Contemporaries. "[ 


mit  an&  MleDom  247 

C:^T  Voltaire. — To  a  person  abusing  Vol- 
taire, and  indiscreetly  opposing  his  character 
to  that  of  Jesus  Christ,  he  said  admirably  well 
(though  he  by  no  means  overrates  Voltaire,  nor 
wants  reverence  in  the  other  quarter,)  that 
"  Voltaire  was  a  very  good  Jesus  Christ  ybr  //le 
French. " — \_Ibid.  ] 

D1SI.IKE  oi'  Solitude.  —  He  would  rather, 
however,  be  with  a  crowd  that  he  dislikes  than 
feel  himself  alone.  He  said  to  me  one  day, 
with  a  face  of  solemnity,  "What  must  have  been 
that  man's  feelings  who  thought  himself  the 
first  deist?"— [/(5z^.] 

A  MaTTER-of-Lie  Man.  —  He  knows  how 
many  false  conclusions  and  pretentions  are 
made  by  men  who  profess  to  be  guided  by  facts 
only,  as  if  facts  could  not  be  misconceived,  or 
figments  taken  for  them  ;  and  therefore  one  day, 
when  somebody  was  speaking  of  a  person  who 
valued  himself  on  being  a  matter-of-fact  man, 
"Now,"  says  he,  "I  value  myself  on  being  a 
matter-of-lie  man."     This  does  not  hinder  his 


248  Cbarles  5Lamb*s 

being  a  man  of  the  greatest  veracity,  in  the 
ordinary  sense  of  the  word;  but  "truth,"  he 
says,  "  is  pernicious,  and  ought  not  to  be  wasted 
on  everybody." — \^Ibid.'] 

To  A  Whist-Pi,ayer.  —  He  said  once  to  a 
brother  whist-player,  who  was  a  hand  more 
clever  than  clean,  and  who  had  enough  in  him 
to  afford  the  joke,  "M.,  if  dirt  were  trumps, 
what  hands  3-ou  would  hold  !  " — \^Ibid.'\ 

A  person  sending  an  unnecessarily  large  sum 
•with  a  lawyer's  brief,  Lamb  said  it  was  "a  fee 
simple." — \_Procier's  Charles  Lavib.'\ 

Mr.  H.  C.  Robinson,  just  called  to  the  bar, 
tells  him,  exultiugly,  that  he  is  retained  in  a 
cause  in  the  King's  Bench.  "  Oh  "  (said  Lamb), 
"the  first  great  cause,  least  understood."  — 
llbid.l 

Of  a  pun  Lamb  says  it  is  "a  noble  thing 
per  se.  It  is  entire.  It  fills  the  mind  ;  it  is  as 
perfect  as  a  sonnet ;  better.  It  limps  ashamed, 
in  the  train  and  retinue  of  humor." — \_Ibid.\ 

Once  when  enjoying  a  pipe  with  Dr.   Parr, 


ma  anO  Mis^ont  249 


that  Divine  enquired  how  lie  came  to  acquire 
the  love  of  smoking  so  much,  he  replied  :  "I 
toiled  after   it   as   some   people    do   virtue." — 

Lamb  one  day  encountered  a  small  urchin 
loaded  with  a  too  heavy  package  of  grocery.  It 
caused  him  to  tremble  and  stop.  Charles 
enquired  where  he  was  going,  took  (although 
weak)  the  load  upon  his  own  shoulder,  and 
managed  to  carry  it  to  Islington,  the  place  of 
destination.  Finding  that  the  purchaser  of  the 
grocery  was  a  female,  he  went  with  the  urchin 
before  her,  and  expressed  a  hope  that  she  would 
intercede  with  the  poor  boy's  master,  in  order 
to  prevent  his  being  ovenveighted  in  the  future. 
**Sir,"  said  the  dame,  after  the  manner  of 
Tisiphone,  frowning  upon  him,  "  I  buy  my 
sugar  and  have  nothing  to  do  with  the  man's 
manner  of  sending  it."  Lamb  at  once  per- 
ceived the  character  of  the  purchaser,  and 
taking  off  his  hat,  said,  humbly,  "  Then  I  hope, 
ma'am,  3'ou  '11  give  me  a  drink  of  small  beer." 
This  was   of  course    refused.      He   afterwards 


250  Cbarles  Xamb^s 

called  upon  the  grocer,  on  the  boy's  behalf. 
With  what  eflfect  I  do  not  know. — \_Ibid.'\ 

He  (Lamb)  was  always  afraid  of  her  (Mary's) 
sensibilities  being  too  deeply  engaged,  and  if 
in  her  presence  any  painful  accident  or  history 
was  discussed,  he  would  turn  the  conversation 
with  some  desperate  joke.  Miss  Beetham,  the 
author  of  the  Lay  of  Ma^'ie,  which  Lamb  es- 
teemed one  of  the  most  graceful  and  truly 
feminine  works  in  a  literature  rich  in  female 
genius,  who  has  reminded  me  of  the  trait  in 
some  recollections  of  Lamb,  with  which  she  has 
furnished  me,  relates  that  once  when  she  was 
speaking  to  Miss  Lamb  of  Charles,  and  in  her 
earnestness  Miss  Lamb  had  laid  her  hand 
kindly  on  the  eulogist's  shoulder,  he  came  up 
hastily  and  interrupted  them,  saying,  "Come, 
come,  we  must  not  talk  sentimentally,"  and 
took  up  the  conversation  in  his  gayest  strain, 
— [Miss  Beetham  to  Talfourd,  Talfoiird's  Let- 
ters of  Charles  Lamb.l 

A  Miss  Pate  (when  he  heard  of  her,  he  asked 
if  she  was  any  relation  to  Mr.  John  Head  of 


mit  an&  MlsDom  251 

Ipswich),  was  at  a  party,  and  he  said  on  hearing 
her  name,  "Miss  Pate  I  hate."  ''You  are  the 
first  person  who  ever  told  me  so,  however," 
said  she.  "O  !  I  mean  nothing  by  it.  If  it 
had  been  Miss  Dove,  I  should  have  said,  '  Miss 
Dove  I  love,'  or  'Miss  Pike  I  like.'"  About 
this  time  also  I  saw  Mr.  Hazlitt  for  the  first 
time  at  their  house,  and  was  talking  on  meta- 
physical subjects  with  him.  Mr.  Lamb  came 
up  ;  but  my  companion  was  very  eloquent,  and 
I  begged  him  not  to  interrupt  us.  He  stood 
silent,  and  Mr.  Dyer  came  to  me.  "I  know," 
said  he,  "that  Mr.  Cristall  is  a  very  fine  artist, 
but  I  should  like  to  know  in  what  his  merit 
principally  consists.  Is  it  coloring,  character, 
design,  etc.  My  eyes  are  so  bad  !  "  On  which 
Mr.  Lamb  began  rhyming — 

"  Says  Mr.  Dyer  to  Mr.  Dawe 
Pray  how  does  Mr.  Cristall  draw  ? 
Says  Mr.  Dawe  to  Mr.  Dyer, 
He  draws  as  well  as  you  'd  desire." 

—[Ibid.] 

A  lady  he  was  intimate  with  had  dark  eyes, 
and  one  evening  people  rather  persecuted  him 


^52  Cbarles  Xamb's 

to  praise  them.  "You  should  now  write  a 
couplet  in  praise  of  her  eyes."  "Aye,  do,  Mr. 
Ivamb,"  said  she  ;  "  make  an  epigram  about  my 
eyes."     He  looked  at  her — 

"  Your  eyes  !  your  eyes  ! 
Are  both  of  a  size  ! ' ' 

which  was  praise,  but  the  least  that  could  be 

accorded.       Mrs.    S recommended    ho7iey 

to  him  as  a  good  thing  for  the  eyes,  and  said 
her  daughter  had  received  much  benefit  from 
it.  "I  knew,"  said  he,  "she  had  sweet  eyes, 
but  had  no  idea  before  how  they  became  so." — 
\_Ibid.-\ 

At  my  house  once  a  person  said  something 
about  his  grandmother.  "  Was  she  a  tall 
woman?"  said  Mr.  Lamb.  "I  don't  know; 
No — Why  do  you  ask  ?  "  "  Oh,  mine  was  ;  she 
was  a  granny  dear." — \^Ibid.'\ 

He  asked  an  absent  lady's  name,  who  had 
rather  sharp  features.  On  hearing  it  was 
Elizabeth,  or  something  of  the  kind,  he  said  : 
"I  should  have  thought,  if  it  had  been  Mary, 
she  might  have  been  St.  Mary  Axe."     Another, 


•QXait  anD  TimisOont  253 


who  was  very  much  marked  with  the  small- 
pox, he  said,  looked  as  if  the  devil  had  ridden 
rough-shod  over  her  face.  I  saw  him  talking 
to  her  afterwards  with  great  apparent  interest, 
and  noticed  it,  saying,  "  I  thought  he  had  not 
liked  her."  His  reply  was,  "I  like  her  inter- 
nals very  well. ' ' —  \_Ibid.  ] 

Mrs.    H was   sitting  on  a  sofa   one  day 

between  Mr.  Montague  and  Mr.  Lamb.  The 
latter  spoke  to  her,  but  all  her  attention  was 
given  to  the  other  party.  At  last  they  ceased 
talking,  and  turning  round  to  Mr.  Lamb,  she 
asked  what  it  was  he  had  been  saying  ?  He 
replied,  "  Ask  Mr.  Montague,  for  it  went  in  at 
one  ear  and  out  at  another." — \_Ibid.'\ 

When  I  knew  him  first  I  happened  to  sit  next 
him  at  dinner,  and  he  was  running  on  about 
some  lady  who  had  died  of  love  for  him,  saying, 
"he  was  very  sorry,"  but  he  could  not  com- 
mand such  inclinations  ;  making  all  the 
commonplace  stuff  said  on  such  occasions 
appear  very  ridiculous,  his  sister  laughingly 
interrupting   him   now    and  then   by    saying, 


254  Cbarles  Xamb's 

"Why,  she's  alive  now!"  "Why,  she's 
married,  and  has  a  large  family,"  etc.  He 
would  not,  however,  allow  it,  and  went  on. 
With  a  very  serious  face,  therefore,  when  he 
looked  my  way,  I  said,  "And  did  she  really 
die  ?  "  With  a  look  of  indignant  astonishment 
at  my  simplicity,  he  said,  "And  do  you  think  I 
should — "  Not  being  able  to  suppress  a  smile, 
he  saw  what  I  had  been  about ;  and  without 
finishing  his  speech,  turned  away  his  head. — 
[Ibid.] 

A  lady,  who  had  been  visiting  in  the  neigh- 
borhood of  Ipswich,  on  her  return  could  talk 
of  nothing  but  the  beauty  of  the  country  and 
the  merits  of  the  people.  Mr.  Lamb  remarked 
that  "She  was  Suffolk-ated."— [/(^/aT.] 

The  way  he  would  imitate  a  person  who  had 
been  detected  in  some  petty  theft  was  inimit- 
able. He  began  once,  saying,  he  had  never 
been  in  suspicious  circumstances  but  once,  and 
then  he  had  laid  his  hand  over  a  guinea  that 
lay  on  a  counter,  but  that  he  really  did  not 
know  it  was  there,  etc.     My  youngest  sister, 


"Ma  anD  MisDom  255 


then  a  little  girl,  in  her  talk  afterwards,  seemed 
to  think  he  must  have  known  it. — [^Ibid.l 

One  day,  at  the  Exhibition  of  the  Royal 
Academy,  I  w^as  sitting  on  a  form  looking  at  the 
catalogue,  and  answering  some  3'oung  people 
about  me  who  had  none,  or  spared  themselves 
the  trouble  of  consulting  it.  There  was  a  large 
picture  of  "  Prospero  and  Miranda";  and  I 
had  just  said,  "It  is  by  Shee ;''  when  a  voice 
near  me  said,  "  Would  it  not  be  more  gram- 
matical to  say  by  herf''  I  looked,  and  it  was 
Mr.  Lamb.— [/<5zV.] 

He  went  with  a  party  to  my  brother  Charles' 
ship,  in  which  the  officers  gave  a  ball  to  their 
friends.  My  brother  hired  a  vessel  to  take  us 
down  to  it,  and  some  of  the  company  asked  its 
name.  On  hearing  it  was  the  Antelope,  Mr. 
Lamb  cried  out,  "  Don't  name  it  ;  I  have  such 
a  respect  for  my  aunt,  I  cannot  bear  to  think 
of  her  doing  such  a  foolish  action." — {^Ibid.'\ 

I  once  sat  with  Mr.  Lamb  in  the  pit  of  the 
theatre,  when  Mrs.  Siddons  gave  one  of  her 


256  Cbarles  Xamb's 


last  performances.  We  had  two  vulgar  and 
conceited  women  behind  us,  who  went  on 
explaining  and  commenting,  to  show  their 
knowledge,  in  a  most  absurd  manner.  Mr. 
Lamb  occasionally  gave  them  a  lift.  When 
Malcolm  came  on,  in  particular,  he  said,  "  He 
a  king  !  Why  he  is  in  petticoats!"  One  of 
them  said  to  the  other,  "It  's  the  dress  of  the 
country.     Ignorant  wretches  !  " — \_Ibid.'\ 

I  had,  I  believe,  once  led  the  discourse  in 
company  by  telling  the  story  of  a  bad  Arabian 
poet,  who  fell  sick  because  he  could  get  nobody 
to  hear  him  recite  ;  the  physician  grasped  the 
cane,  and  caned  him.  On  this,  Mr.  Lamb  de- 
claimed a  great  deal  on  the  absurdity  of  reading 
one's  own  works  aloud ; — that  people  w-ere 
always  tired,  instead  of  being  pleased  with  it ; 
and  that  he  made  a  poem  the  other  day,  befit- 
ting the  time  (one  of  those  of  overwhelming 
darkness  such  as  ours  in  London  sometimes 
are)  ;  and  though  he  had  not  yet  had  time  to 
transcribe   it,    and   recollected  it  perfectly,  he 

should  never  think  of  repeating  it  to  other  peo- 
17 


Mit  ant)  'WHisDom  257 

pie.  Everybody  of  course  were  entreating  him 
to  favor  them  by  repeating  it,  assuring  him 
they  would  like  it  verj-  much  ;  and  at  length 
he  complied — "  O  my  Gog  !  what  a  fog  !  "  "A 
fine  thing  to  make  a  fuss  about?"  said  Miss 
M ;  "  Why,  I  can  make  a  second  part,  ex- 
tempore— '  I  cannot  see  to  kill  a  flea  ! '  " — 
lIhid.-\ 

On  a  book  of  Coleridge's  nephew  he  writes, 
*'  I  confess  he  has  more  of  the  Sterne  about 
him  than  the  Sternhold.  But  he  saddens  into 
excellent  sense  before  the  conclusion." — [/(5zV.] 

Hood  tempting  Lamb  to  dine  with  him,  said, 
*'We  have  a  hare,"  ''And  many  friends?" 
inquired  Lamb. — \_Ibid.'\ 

It  being  suggested  that  he  would  not  sit  down 
to  a  meal  with  the  Italian  witnesses  at  the 
Queen's  trial,  Lamb  rejected  the  imputation, 
asserting  that  he  would  sit  v/ith  anything 
except  a  hen  or  a  tailor. — \_Ibid.'\ 


258  Cbarles  3Lamb*6 


An  old  lady,  fond  of  her  dissenting  minister, 
wearied  Lamb  by  the  length  of  her  praises.  "  I 
speak,  because  I  know  him  well,"  said  she, 
**  Well,  I  don't,"  replied  Lamb  ;  "  I  don't,  but 
d n  him,  at  a  venture." — [/did.'] 

The  Scotch,  whom  he  did  not  like,  ought,  he 
said,  to  have  double  punishment ;  and  to  have 
lire  without  brimstone. — [Idzd.'] 

Southey,  in  1799,  showed  him  a  dull  poem  on 
a  rose;  Lamb's  criticism  was,    "Your  rose  is 
insipid  ;  it  has  neither  thorns  nor  sweetness." 
—[/did.] 

The  second  son  of  George  the  Second,  it  was 
said,  had  a  very  cold  and  uncongenial  manner. 
Lamb  stammered  out  in  his  defence  that  "  This 
was  very  natural  in  the  Duke  of  Cu — cum — ber- 
— land.''— [/did. 2 

To  Bernard  Barton,  of  a  person  of  repute, 
**  There  must  be  something  in  him.  Such  great 
names  imply  greatness.     Which  of  us  has  seen 


mil  anD  Mig^om  259 

Michael  Angelo's  things?    Yet    which   of  lis 
disbelieves  his  greatness." — [/dtd.'\ 

"  Charles,"  said  Coleridge  to  Lamb,  "  I  think 
you  have  heard  me  preach  ?  "  "I  n-n-n-never 
heard  you  do  anything  else,"  replied  Lamb. — 
[/did.} 

One  evening  Coleridge  had  consumed  the 
whole  time  in  talking  of  some  "regenerated" 
orthodoxy ;  Leigh  Hunt,  who  was  one  of  the 
listeners,  on  leaving  the  house,  expressed  his 
surprise  at  the  prodigality  and  intensity  of 
Coleridge's  religious  expressions.  Lamb  tran- 
quillized him  by  "  Ne-ne-never  mind  what 
Coleridge  says,  he  's  full  of  fun  !  " — llbid.'] 

The  Bank,  the  India  House,  and  other  rich 
traders  look  insultingly  on  the  old  deserted 
South  Sea,  as  on  their  poor  neighbor  out  of 
business. — [Idid.  ] 

In  his  exultation,  on  being  released  from  his 
thirty-four  years  of  labor  at  the  India  House, 


26o  Cbarles  Xamt)*9 

he  says,  "  Had  I  a  little  son,  I  would  christen 
him  *  Nothing  to  do.'  "— [//^zV.] 

vSpeaking  of  Don  Quixote,  he  calls  him  "  The 
Errant  Star  of  Knighthood,  made  more  tender 
by  eclipse." — \^Ibid.'] 

On  being  asked  by  a  schoolmistress  for  some 
sign  indicative  of  her  calling,  he  recommended 
"  the  Murder  of  the  Innocents." — \^Ibid.'\ 

I  once  said  something  in  his  presence,  which 
I  thought  possessed  smartness.  He  commended 
me  with  a  stammer  ;  "  Very  well,  my  dear 
boy,  very  well.  Ben,  (taking  a  pinch  of  snuff), 
Ben  Jonson  has  said  worse  things  than  that — 
and— and— b-b-better. '  '—\_Ibid.  ] 

To  Coleridge,  "Bless  you,  old  Sophist,  who 
next  to  human  nature  taught  me  all  the  corrup- 
tion I  was  capable  of  knowing." — [Ibid.] 

To  Mr.  Gillman,  a  surgeon,  ("query  Kill- 
man  ?  ")  he  whites,  "  Coleridge  is  very  bad,  but 
he  w^onderfully  picks  up,  and  his  face,  when  he 
repeats  his  verses,  hath  its  ancient  glory  :  an 
archangel  a  little  damaged." — [Ibid.'] 


Mlt  an^  limisDom 


261 


To  Wordsworth  (who  was  superfluously 
solemn)  he  writes,  "  Some  d — d  people  have 
come  in,  and  I  must  finish  abruptly.  By  d — d, 
I  only  mean  deuced." — [^Ibid.'\ 


INDEX. 


Affection,  on  the  expres- 
sion of,  197 

Affections,  on  the  seat  of 
the,  6 

Albums,  on,  106 

Almsgiving,  on,  133 

Alone,  on  never  being,  141 

Ancestry,  pride  of,  56 

Anderson,  on  Dr.,  180 

Answer,  a  sharp,  246 

Art,  criticism  on,  83 

Artist,  an,  72 

a  mediocre,  95 

Associates,  equality  neces- 
sary to,  I 

Author,  an  unaccustomed, 

155 
Authoress,  a  visit  to  an,  172 
Authors,  booksellers  and, 

202 
Autobiographies,  108 

Babel,  Tower  of,  3 
Balmanno,  a  visit  to  Mrs., 
213 


Bankrupts,  on,  99 
Bedfellows,  odd,  219 
Behavior,  bad,  143 
Belshazzar,  a  painting,  213 
Benevolence,  arrested,  100 

the  crutch  of,  197 
Betrothed,  a  gift  from  her, 

212 
Blake's  drawings,  117 
Books,  borrowers  of,  151 

reviewing,  169 
Borrowers,  14 
Bunyan,  on  a  fine  edition 

of,  107 
Burnett,    on     History    of 

Bishop,  191 
Burney,  on  M.,  97 
Byron,  acuta  criticism  on, 

140 
the  death  of,  112 

Calls,  making,  118 
Gary,  on  H.  F.,  124 
Cats  and  Homer,  106 
Chance,  games  of,  5 


264 


irnt)ej 


Character,  sketches  of,  20, 
38,  56,  210 

a  woman's,  39 
Child,  the  man  and  the,  7 
Childhood,  64 

a  story  of,  93 

is  childhood  dead  ?  19 
Children,  4 

on  loving,  29 

the  commonness  of,  32 
Chimney-sweeps,  35 
China,  blue,  47 

letter  to  a  friend  in,  145 
Chirography,  on,  217 
Church,  at  Hastings,  124 

a  tiny,  114 
City  life,  charms  of,  145 
Clarke,  on  Cowden,  239 
Clerk,  the  model,  82 
C.  I,.'s  "  Moral  Sense,"  176 
Coat,  a  new,  187 
Coelebs  in  Search  of  a  Wife, 

154 
Coleridge,  a  visit  to,  161 

as  a  companion,  189 

gratitude  to,  197 

monologue  of,  237 
Colossus,  a  damaged,  53 
Conscience,    I^amb's    ten- 
der, 127 
Constancy,  Lamb's  idea  of, 

167 
Conversation   in   a  coach, 

103 
Country  villages,  102 

imagining  a  distant,  31 


Credulity,  23 
Criticism,  acute,  193 

a  literary,  204 
Crowd,  a  scene  in  a,  50 

Dash,  the  dog,  200 
"  Day-Mare,"  a,  120 
Debtors,  on,  99 
De  Foe's  writings,  128 
Desires,  spiritual,  198 
Dialect  in  poetry',  135 
Divines,  two  Methodist,  24 
Domestic,  on  his  new,  105 
Dyer,  George,  12,  184 
conscience  of,  215 

EJars,  a  ringing  in  the,  113 
East     India      Company's 

rules,  139 
Elia,  Gentle,  188 

who  is,  10 

Cousin  James,  i,  2 
Elliston,  the  actor,  68 
Epitaphs,  on,  12 

humorous,  222 
Eternity,  time  and,  62 
Experiments,      financial. 


Faith,  a  child's,  21 
Familj',  a  measureless,  216 
Faust,  130 

Feeling,  delicacy  of,  no 
Fierj'  age,  the,  209 
Frenchmen  and  English- 
men, 162 


ITnDej 


265 


Friendship,  197 
Folding  letters,  102 
Fools,  on,  3  f 

Gallantry,  consistent,  40 
Garden,  his,  132 
Genius,  sanity  of  true,  67 
German  language,  on  the, 

184 
Giantess,  the  gentle,  93, 136 
"  God  Save  the  King,"  7 
Godliness,  cleanliness  and, 

96 
Godwin,  on  William,  190 
Grace,  on  saying,  17 
Guy  Faux,  if  he  had  been 

successful,  89 

Haydon's     memories     of 

I,amb,  235 
Hazlitt,  Wm.,  157 
Head,  a  ringing  in  the,  181 
Hissing,  on,  St 
Holiday,  excuse  for  a,  245 
Holiness,    the    beauty    of, 

64 
Home,  130 
Hood,  the  prince  of  wits, 

216 
Hood's,  a  dinner  at,  230 
' '  Hook  and  I, ' '  156. 
Hunt's  characterization  of 

I^amb,  246 

Ignorance,  the  benefit  of, 
126 


Ink,    on    using    different 

kinds  of,  137 
Invalids,      selfishness     of, 

65 
Irony,  221 

Irving,  Edward,  116 
madness  of,  218 

Jackson,  Captain,  6r 
Joke,  Mary's  first,  151 
Jokes,    on  writing    news- 
paper, 67 
Juggler,  an  amiable,  60 

I^amb,    and    the    beggar 
225 
and  the  pudding,  226 
and  the  city  acquaint- 
ance, 243 
I,amb's,  creed,  220 

love  for  children,  240 
propensity  to  mystify, 

224 
sympathy  for  animals, 

238 
watch,  244 

whimsical  candor,  239 
lyanguage    not    the    only 
means  of  human  in- 
tercourse, 160 
lycisure,  retired,  63 
Letter,  the  end  of  a,  155 
I,ibraiy,  I^amb  on  his  own, 

152 
I^itany,  an  addition  to  the, 
159 


266 


■ffnC^ej 


Iviterature,   curiosities  in, 

II 
X,iver,  the  longest,  123 
London,  on,  182 

love  of,  166 

the  I,ord  Mayor  of,  190 
Lottery,  the,  79 

Mahomet,  Taylor's  defence 

of,  237 
Man,  the  sick,  66 

a  good.  III 
ISIatter-of-lie  man,  a,  247 
Memory,  a  lying,  136 
Mistake,  an  amusing,  84 
Monuments,  on,  107 
Moral   point,  the    promi- 
nence of  the,  32 
Moving,  discomforts  of,  153 
Music,  instrumental,  26 

Neatness,  lack  of,  134 
Newspaper  man,  a,  70 

Opera,  Italian,  25 
Oratorio,  the,  26 
Otaheite,  the  first  pun  in, 
91 


Play,  38 

Players,  Plays  and,  61 
Poet,  an  obituary,  150 
Poetical  project,  a,  170 
Poets  as  critics, ,115 
Pope's  portrait,  131 
Presents,  on  exchanging, 

33 

Priestley's  sermons,  196 

Protestants      and     Chris- 
tians, 76 

Puns,  38,  113 

Puns  and  punch,  153 

Quakers,  on,  24 

composure  of,  15 
Quixote,  Don,  116 

Reading-rooms,  on  public, 

156 
Relation,  the  poor,  51 
Religion  and  good  words, 

no 
Religions,  varied,  77 
Riches,  138 
Rickman,  a  pen    portrait 

of,  178 
Robinson,  anecdote  of,  248 


Painting,    criticism  on  a, 

109 
Paris,  to  a  friend  in,  159 
People,  married,  34 
Petrarch,  if  he  had  been 

born  a  fool,  143 
Philosophy,  moral,  65 


Scene,  a  street,  36 
Schoolmaster,  the,  75 
School,   reminiscences  of, 

V 
Scotch  character,  44 
Scotchmen,  lack  of  humor 

in,  43 


•»in2)cj 


267 


Scripture,  silent,  iig 
Sea-shore,  dislike  of  the, 

54 
Shakespeare,    the  evils  of 

illustrating,  215 
Shelley,  on,  118,  140 
Sick-bed,  the,  C5 
Sickness,  the  armor  of,  66 
Skiddawand  the  tourists, 

163 
Smoking,  on,  165 

on  giving  up  ,  127 
Smuggler,  the,  54 
Solitude,  dislike  of,  247 
Sonnets,  old  English,  59 
Southey,  criticisms  on,  125 
South  ey's  dialogues,  105 
Sunday,  on,  119 
Sundays,  wet,  206 
Sun-dial,  the,  17 

Temperament,    a    Scotch, 

43 

Theses     Qusedam     Theo- 
logies, 194 

Truth  and  sincerity,  185 


Vacations,  49 

Veracity,  his  character  for, 

lOI 

Visitors,  nocturnal,  15S 

afiectation  of  town,  55 
Voice,  a  woman's,  92 
Voltaire,  on,  247 
Volume,  a  precious,  74 

Walton's  "  Complete  Ang- 
ler," 205 
' '  Wet  or  walky , ' '  109 
Whist  player,  to  a,  248 

game  of,  9 
Wife's  treatment,  a,  27 
William  the  IVth.,  99 
Woman,  respect  for,  42 

hater,  a,  157 

characters  in  a  play,  78 
Wordsworth    and    Shake- 
speare, 157 
Wordsworth's  poetry,  86 
Work,  relief  from  routine, 
144 

Yams,  a  spinner  of,  52 


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IX. — Lays  of  Ancient  Rome.  By  Thomas 
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ScHARF $1  00 

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fine  workmanship  of  this  series  makes  it  a  pleasure  even  to 
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X.— The  Rose  and  the  Ring.    By  William  M. 

Thackeray.  With  the  author's  illustrations.  $r  25 

"  The  Rose  and  the  Ring.,  by  Thackeray,  is  reproduced 
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1fcntc??erboct;cr  TRucic^ets* 


XI. — Irish  Melodies  and  Songs.  By  Thomas 
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"  The  latest  issue  is  a  collection  of  Thomas  Moore's  Irish 
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each  page  of  the  text  printed  within  an  outline  border  of 
appropriate  green  tint,  embellished  with  emblems  and  figures 
fitting  the  text." — Boston  Times. 

XII. — Undine  and  Sintram.  By  De  La  Motte 
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"  Undine  and  Sintram  are  the  latest  issue,  bound  in  one 
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XIII. — The  Essays  of  Elia.  By  Charles 
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XIV.— Tales  from  the  Italian  Poets.  By 
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"  The  perfection  of  artistic  booknia'  i-.r:;." — San  Francisco 
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beauty." — Troy  Times. 

''Hunt  had  just  that  delightful  knowledge  of  the  Italian 
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an  exquisite  style  of  his  own  wherein  to  make  his  presentation 
of  them  to  English  readers  perfect." — New  York  Critic. 

The  first  series,  comprising  the  foregoing 
eighteen  volumes,  in  handsome  case,     019.00 


IRnickerbocher  IRuooeta. 


XV.— Thoughts  of  the  Emperor  Marcus 
Aurelius  Antoninus.  Translated  by  George 
Long $i  oo 

"  The  thoughts  of  the  famous  Roman  are  worthy  of  a  new 
introduction  to  the  army  of  readers  through  a  volume  so 
dainty  and  pleasing." — Intelligencer, 

*'  As  a  book  for  hard  study,  as  a  book  to  inspire  reverie,  as 
a  book  for  five  minutes  or  an  hour,  it  is  both  delightful  and 
profitable." — Joji?-nal  of  Education. 

"  It  is  an  interesting  little  book,  and  we  feel  indebted  to  the 
translator  for  this  presentation  of  his  work." — Presbyterian. 

XVI. — iEsop's  Fables.  Rendered  chiefly  from 
original  sources.  By  Rev.  Thomas  James,  M.A. 
With  I  GO  illustrations  by  John  Tenniell.     $r  25 

"  It  is  wonderful  the  hold  these  parables  have  had  upon 
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"  For  many  a  long  day  nothing  has  been  thought  out  or 
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"  These  classic  studies  adorned  with  morals  were  never 
more  neatly  prepared  for  the  public  eye." — The  Milwaukee 
Wisconsin. 

XVII. — Ancient  Spanish  Ballads.  Historic 
and  Romantic.  Translated,  with  notes,  by  J.  G. 
Lockhart.  Reprinted  from  the  revised  edition 
of  1 841,  with  60  illustrations  by  Allan,  Roberts, 
SiMsoN,  Warren,  Aubrey,  and  Harvey.     $i  50 

"  a  mass  of  popular  poetry  which  has  never  yet  received 
the  attention  to  which  it  is  entitled." — Boston  Journal  of 
Education. 

"  The  historical  and  artistic  settings  of  these  mediaeval 
poetic  gems  enhance  the  value  and  attractiveness  of  the 
book." — Buffalo  Chronicle  Advocate. 


Iknickcxbochcv  Tftugoete, 


XVIIL— The  Wit  and  Wisdom  of  Sydney 
Smith.  A  selection  of  the  most  memorable  pas- 
sages in  his  Writings  and  Conversations  .         $i  oo 

XIX.— The  Ideals  of  the  Republic;  or, 
Great  Words  from  Great  Americans.  Com- 
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"The  Constitution  of  the  United  States,  1779"; 
"Washington's  Circular  Letter,  T7S3,"  etc.     §1  co 

XX. — Selections  from  Thomas  De  Quincey. 
Comprising:  "On  Murder  Considered  as  One  of 
the  Fine  Arts";  Three  Memorable  Murders"; 
"The  Spanish  Nun."     .         .          .         .         $1  00 

XXI. — Tales  by  Heinrich  Zschokke.  Com- 
prising :  "A  New  Year's  Eve";  "The  Broken 
Pitcher";  "Jonathan  Frock";  "A  Walpurgis 
Night."  Translated  by  Parke  Godwin  and 
William  P.  Prentice  .        .        .         .        §1  00 

XXII. — American  War  Ballads.  A  selection 
of  the  more  noteworthy  of  the  Ballads  and  Lyrics 
which  were  produced  during  the  Revolution,  the 
War  of  1 81 2,  the  I^Iexican  War,  and  the  Civil  War. 
Edited,  with  notes,  by  Geo.  Cary  Eggleston. 
With  original  illustrations.     Two  vols.    .         f  2  50 

XXIII. — The  Autobiography  of  Benjamin 
Franklin.  Edited,  wiih  notes,  by  John  Bige- 
Low $1  00 

XXIV. — Sof  ^s  of  Fairy  Land.  Compiled  b? 
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1knicl?erboct?er  IRuciacts.  vii 

XXV, — Sesame   and    Lilies.     By  John  Rus- 

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XXVI. — The  Garden,  as  considered  in  literature 
by  certain  polite  v.-riters.  Edited  by  Walter  Howe, 
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XXVII.— The  Boyhood  and  Youth  of  Goethe. 
Comprising  the  first  thirteen  books  of  his  Autobiog- 
raphy ("Truth  and  Poetry  from  my  own  Life"). 
Two  vols.  ......  $2  CO 

XXVIII.— The  Sayings  of  Poor  Richard. 
Being  the  Prefaces,  Proverbs,  and  Poems  of  Benja- 
min Franklin,  originally  printed  in  Poor  Richard's 
Almanacs  for  1 733-1 758.  Collected  and  Edited  by 
Paul  L,  Ford.     Vv'ith  portrait  of  Franklin,   ^r  00 

XXIX. — Love  Poems  of  Three  Centuries. 
Compiled  by  Jessie  F.O'DONNELL.  Twovols.  $2  00 

XXX. — Chesterfield's  Letters.  Second 
Series.  Letters  of  Philip  Dormer,  Fourth  Earl  of 
Chesterfield,  to  his  Godson  and  Successor.  Now 
first  edited  from  the  originals,  with  a  Memoir  of 
Lord  Chesterfield  by  the  Earl  of  Carnarvon.  With 
portraits  and  illustrations.     Two  vols.      .         $2  00 

XXXI.— Representative  Irish  Stories.  Com- 
piled, with  Introduction  and  Notes,  by  W,  B,  Yeats. 
Two  vols,         .          .....         $2  00 

XXXII.— French  Ballads.  Printed  in  the 
original  text.  Edited  by  Prof.  T.  F.  Crane. 
Illustrated •         ^i   50 

XXXIII.— Eothen.  Pictures  of  Eastern 
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•^nlcfterboc??er  IRucjcjets. 


XXXIV.— stories  from  the  Arabian  Nights. 

Selected  and  edited  by  Stanley  Lane-Poole,  with 
additions  newly  translated  from  the  Arabic.  Three 
volumes.  Each  volume  contains  a  frontispiece  in 
photogravure  and  other  designs      .  .  .         $3  oo 

XXXV.— A  Selection  from  the  Discourses  of 
Epictetus;  with  the  Encheiridion.  Translated 
by  George  Long $i  oo 

XXXVL— Rasselas,  Prince  of  Abyssinia.  By 
Samuel  Johnson $i  oo 

XXXVII. —Cranford.  By  Mrs.  Gaskei.l.  Oi  oo 
"  XXXVIIL— German  Ballads.  Printed  in  the 
original  text.  Edited  by  Prof.  II.  S.  White. 
Illustrated |r   50 


G.  P.  PUTNAM'S  SONS,  Plblishers 
New  York  and  London 


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